Unsuspecting Public of the Sink.
When your body wakes you up at four o'clock in the morning, it generally doesn't signify something good. Especially when you're shivering and your entire body feels like it was run over by a train. So I crawl into the shower and halfway through, I faint in the shower and wake up on the shower floor with my hair soaking wet. I take effort, turn off the shower, come out and throw up.
So I'm home sick, ready to be massacred by my band mates and trying to make my body cooperate. This is going to be a long weekend.
Anyways. That wasn't the true intent of writing. I just felt obligated to share the adventures of my silly body before I start on the main topic.
I lay in bed last night, about midnight (pre-stomach-episode), and I was overwhelmed, as I usually am at various times of night with a loneliness that refuses to ebb away with the night, but rather grows stronger. I wouldn't say it's the existentialist feeling of loneliness, in which one is confronted with existence and dealing with what it is -- but it tends to run along those lines. I can dismiss it by saying that my hormones are getting the better of me, but I know that's not entirely true. And I want to solve the riddle of my mental affairs because I feel that until then, my nights won't be as smooth as they used to be.
My dreams are fraught with death and murder. Those who do not know me would assume those are normal in my nighttime REM cycles ... but they're not. My dreams, however tumultuous they may seem, are generally of soothing quality, despite their content, and never once have they bordered on the edge of insanity as those of late have been. I suppose my outward countenance wouldn't show it -- I have been happy, in the day, and I feel myself drifting away into blithe smiles and spasmodic attacks of elated dancing.
But when the night hits, my nocturnal side gets the better of me, and it's not what it used to be.
So I'm home sick, ready to be massacred by my band mates and trying to make my body cooperate. This is going to be a long weekend.
Anyways. That wasn't the true intent of writing. I just felt obligated to share the adventures of my silly body before I start on the main topic.
I lay in bed last night, about midnight (pre-stomach-episode), and I was overwhelmed, as I usually am at various times of night with a loneliness that refuses to ebb away with the night, but rather grows stronger. I wouldn't say it's the existentialist feeling of loneliness, in which one is confronted with existence and dealing with what it is -- but it tends to run along those lines. I can dismiss it by saying that my hormones are getting the better of me, but I know that's not entirely true. And I want to solve the riddle of my mental affairs because I feel that until then, my nights won't be as smooth as they used to be.
My dreams are fraught with death and murder. Those who do not know me would assume those are normal in my nighttime REM cycles ... but they're not. My dreams, however tumultuous they may seem, are generally of soothing quality, despite their content, and never once have they bordered on the edge of insanity as those of late have been. I suppose my outward countenance wouldn't show it -- I have been happy, in the day, and I feel myself drifting away into blithe smiles and spasmodic attacks of elated dancing.
But when the night hits, my nocturnal side gets the better of me, and it's not what it used to be.