(no subject)
Exhausted, but with sleep so stubbornly out of reach lately, I sit under my light-dimmed room huddled under the blanket. Outside, I can see the trees stir as the wind fondles their almost-bare branches.
It is brutally cold in here, and feeling a breeze brush my cheek, I pull my hair down in a final effort to keep my body-heat from evaporating into the dark air. I do so desperately, and with little regard for the ripping noise against my still-unwashed hair.
I bring my knees closer to my chest under the blanket and re-position my laptop next to me. Is is awkward tapping the keyboard in this position, but it will have to do.
Now, at 7:03am, I should be job-hunting.
Instead, I'm thinking. And it feels good to think in this silence. To reflect on my increasingly-alien life.
I wonder lots about the new girl in my LJ. The sad one who talks about painting, and says things like sharing is belonging. Her entries stir my mind as I reflect on all things remote: all things that seem to move closer in proximity as I come to understand them.
Moments of epiphany come in legions lately.
At twenty-five, when I am meant to feel young and without boundaries, I feel as though I am more lacking than ever. I am like a cat who, as she grooms her face, freezes with one paw still in mid air at the sight of a fly beyond the window.
A year ago, this feeling would have sent me into panic-stricken tears, and resolutions of the wild and untamed kind. Instead, I find myself indulged in these feelings of awful things as if it is laughter, or curiosity that breeds within me. It is not a delight in life's torments, or any such masochistic intrigues that I describe here. It is something quite different and strange, possibly beyond words that can merely explain.
Dawn has broken through the horizon and my room, though still dark, doesn’t feel quite as silent. The thick clouds carry not a single break in their unified entity. The desolate sun lurks in unknown places.
It is brutally cold in here, and feeling a breeze brush my cheek, I pull my hair down in a final effort to keep my body-heat from evaporating into the dark air. I do so desperately, and with little regard for the ripping noise against my still-unwashed hair.
I bring my knees closer to my chest under the blanket and re-position my laptop next to me. Is is awkward tapping the keyboard in this position, but it will have to do.
Now, at 7:03am, I should be job-hunting.
Instead, I'm thinking. And it feels good to think in this silence. To reflect on my increasingly-alien life.
I wonder lots about the new girl in my LJ. The sad one who talks about painting, and says things like sharing is belonging. Her entries stir my mind as I reflect on all things remote: all things that seem to move closer in proximity as I come to understand them.
Moments of epiphany come in legions lately.
At twenty-five, when I am meant to feel young and without boundaries, I feel as though I am more lacking than ever. I am like a cat who, as she grooms her face, freezes with one paw still in mid air at the sight of a fly beyond the window.
A year ago, this feeling would have sent me into panic-stricken tears, and resolutions of the wild and untamed kind. Instead, I find myself indulged in these feelings of awful things as if it is laughter, or curiosity that breeds within me. It is not a delight in life's torments, or any such masochistic intrigues that I describe here. It is something quite different and strange, possibly beyond words that can merely explain.
Dawn has broken through the horizon and my room, though still dark, doesn’t feel quite as silent. The thick clouds carry not a single break in their unified entity. The desolate sun lurks in unknown places.