My moonlit sonatta
My hands still smell of pesto.
It's midnight on a saturday. In arizona, this would be the beginning.
But it's quiet. I stood alone in front of the glass door, eyeing the reflection of myself and the bright the moon that's shinning between trees. It's full.
I got this odd sensation, like I do from time to time when I'm alone, that someone or something was with me. It scared me away from the door and the moon and trees, so I pulled the drapes closed, locked the door and headed for my room.
To sleep. I choose sleep over "hanging out". Why bother? Why bother forming more useless relationships. They will pass with time. They always do. Why not stay at home and sleep. Sleep sleep sleep and do all those familiar boring comfortable things.
I'm tired of being fake, of being uncomfortablely comfortable and social.
So instead I say goodnight. And I say it to the moon and the stars and let them guide me as I ponder. Questions of existance. Of my own and everyone elses. Of the existance of that other that follows me around, whose reflection seems evident next to mind in the glass door. Questions of my animus. The yin to my yang. The one who wears the dark cloak and the top hat. Questions of human nature. Of our pleas for attention. Of the irony of the way we search for dignity by losing it. Of the way we pose in mirrors in scandalous clothes. And then we pose for people as though we were professionals. As though being sexy was actually the was we felt. Because if we did, we wouldn't beg. We wouldn't beg and plead to be noticed, to be called it. I ponder these things and arrive to a sort of comfort. The comfort in the knowledge that being alone comes in part from the garuntee we can do nothing we regret, because if a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, it doesn't make a sound. And for that, for that I choose sleep. I choose sleep and goodnights.
It's about ten past twelve. I'm tired. I feel sick. It's felt like a long worthless day.
But dinner was good.
And my hands still smell of pesto.
It's midnight on a saturday. In arizona, this would be the beginning.
But it's quiet. I stood alone in front of the glass door, eyeing the reflection of myself and the bright the moon that's shinning between trees. It's full.
I got this odd sensation, like I do from time to time when I'm alone, that someone or something was with me. It scared me away from the door and the moon and trees, so I pulled the drapes closed, locked the door and headed for my room.
To sleep. I choose sleep over "hanging out". Why bother? Why bother forming more useless relationships. They will pass with time. They always do. Why not stay at home and sleep. Sleep sleep sleep and do all those familiar boring comfortable things.
I'm tired of being fake, of being uncomfortablely comfortable and social.
So instead I say goodnight. And I say it to the moon and the stars and let them guide me as I ponder. Questions of existance. Of my own and everyone elses. Of the existance of that other that follows me around, whose reflection seems evident next to mind in the glass door. Questions of my animus. The yin to my yang. The one who wears the dark cloak and the top hat. Questions of human nature. Of our pleas for attention. Of the irony of the way we search for dignity by losing it. Of the way we pose in mirrors in scandalous clothes. And then we pose for people as though we were professionals. As though being sexy was actually the was we felt. Because if we did, we wouldn't beg. We wouldn't beg and plead to be noticed, to be called it. I ponder these things and arrive to a sort of comfort. The comfort in the knowledge that being alone comes in part from the garuntee we can do nothing we regret, because if a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, it doesn't make a sound. And for that, for that I choose sleep. I choose sleep and goodnights.
It's about ten past twelve. I'm tired. I feel sick. It's felt like a long worthless day.
But dinner was good.
And my hands still smell of pesto.