You may say I'm a dreamer.
*I composed this piece a while back. Perhaps two weeks ago. I had it up on Myspace, but took it down. I have edited and reposted it for your reading pleasure... or whatever it is that my writing does for you.
...
The machine is on again… I’m breathing… Let’s see… Yes. Yes I am. Everything checks out?
Lungs, heart, stomach…
Everything checks out, all right.
I’m chasing ghosts in the attic. I’m chasing shadows up the wall. I am living in a crystal palace -- a future-land with all kinds of bells and whistles and underground magnetic strips that direct when the traffic lights ought to change. Yet, I wander aimlessly. Sometimes I don’t have the will to wander at all.
I sit instead at the helm of the machine. Static. Frantic. No, not frantic - just awake - awake in a dark, silent household. Thinking hard. Scraping all thoughts together and hoping to make a whole out of what I can find. I grab pieces now and again from out there in the time-space continuum. I have a web with which I may catch some of those scattered fragments, you know. It is made of invisible, humming electricity.
I am using it to talk to you all right now. What can you tell me? Can you give me any of my fragments back? Well?
haha… lol… omg… jk… brb…
My file has been corrupted. My database if full of bugs. I am a record, spinning on a turntable and skipping. Each time the needle makes another round the groove gets wider, the scratch deeper. Lacerated vinyl: hemorrhaging the same damn line from the same damn song.
I ought to turn off the player and let it rest for a while. I ought to curb my enthusiasm.
But I have always been a dreamer, and I can’t help but to occasionally mistake dreams for reality when the early morning light, cut by Venetian blinds, etches horizontal patterns on my desktop and the birds are singing to me like sirens while I slowly shake the sand from my eyes.
...
The machine is on again… I’m breathing… Let’s see… Yes. Yes I am. Everything checks out?
Lungs, heart, stomach…
Everything checks out, all right.
I’m chasing ghosts in the attic. I’m chasing shadows up the wall. I am living in a crystal palace -- a future-land with all kinds of bells and whistles and underground magnetic strips that direct when the traffic lights ought to change. Yet, I wander aimlessly. Sometimes I don’t have the will to wander at all.
I sit instead at the helm of the machine. Static. Frantic. No, not frantic - just awake - awake in a dark, silent household. Thinking hard. Scraping all thoughts together and hoping to make a whole out of what I can find. I grab pieces now and again from out there in the time-space continuum. I have a web with which I may catch some of those scattered fragments, you know. It is made of invisible, humming electricity.
I am using it to talk to you all right now. What can you tell me? Can you give me any of my fragments back? Well?
haha… lol… omg… jk… brb…
My file has been corrupted. My database if full of bugs. I am a record, spinning on a turntable and skipping. Each time the needle makes another round the groove gets wider, the scratch deeper. Lacerated vinyl: hemorrhaging the same damn line from the same damn song.
I ought to turn off the player and let it rest for a while. I ought to curb my enthusiasm.
But I have always been a dreamer, and I can’t help but to occasionally mistake dreams for reality when the early morning light, cut by Venetian blinds, etches horizontal patterns on my desktop and the birds are singing to me like sirens while I slowly shake the sand from my eyes.