Quarter to Eleven
It's raining, it's almost midnight, it's Wednesday (still) and it's (heartbreakingly) still outside and inside (speaking re: both the flat and me).
It's almost midnight and I'm setting about the inherently pointless task of cleaning my room and/or my head: there's really very little sense in shuffling things around. The end result is going to be the same: a mess; all you can do is call it 'artistic' and leave it be.
Instead, I'm staring at the broken clock on the wall which has been that way for years: quiet and insistent that it's quarter to eleven. In a couple of days, the clock will probably finally get a new battery and be moved to a new place or will be taken down from the wall forever, both options making me equally sad.
Everything is changing - and not that it's necessarily bad, it's just this habit of hanging onto things we know all too well. The old is steadily melting and dissolving, never to be found again but in the faint ghosts of memories that linger in the air, while the new is grabbing your hand and dragging you away excitedly, shushing so that you stopped looking at all things yesterday and finally glanced ahead, into the oh-so-bright future.
I will, definitely. Just give me this, the homely quietness in the middle of the mess made out of things I know and love so much. Tomorrow the light from the lamp might not be so flattering anymore.
It's almost midnight and I'm setting about the inherently pointless task of cleaning my room and/or my head: there's really very little sense in shuffling things around. The end result is going to be the same: a mess; all you can do is call it 'artistic' and leave it be.
Instead, I'm staring at the broken clock on the wall which has been that way for years: quiet and insistent that it's quarter to eleven. In a couple of days, the clock will probably finally get a new battery and be moved to a new place or will be taken down from the wall forever, both options making me equally sad.
Everything is changing - and not that it's necessarily bad, it's just this habit of hanging onto things we know all too well. The old is steadily melting and dissolving, never to be found again but in the faint ghosts of memories that linger in the air, while the new is grabbing your hand and dragging you away excitedly, shushing so that you stopped looking at all things yesterday and finally glanced ahead, into the oh-so-bright future.
I will, definitely. Just give me this, the homely quietness in the middle of the mess made out of things I know and love so much. Tomorrow the light from the lamp might not be so flattering anymore.