(no subject)
Some nights, a heart canters too joyously for sleep.
This is one.
As I was moving towards this end of my home, I saw a puddle of moonlight on my kitchen floor. It had been a long time since I'd smiled up at Luna from inside my warm den. As I stepped into her view, a shooting star lived its quick bright life. I drew breath and wished.
I do believe that's a sign my luck is turning again.
There's the sensation, again, of concepts like dead leaves in my brain. The wind is swirling them so quickly by me, I can barely appreciate a single one, much less catch it long enough to chisel it into this slab of stone. I think I need to learn more about meditation . . . I could be a more productive maker if I could sit still long enough to actually do something. Usually, in this mode, I find myself chasing butterflies or dancing or kissing or pursuing any of the multitude of pleasures it suddenly occurs that I must experience, and NOW. Shrooms is a shortcut to this state as well. That just occured to me. NO, MR. FBI MAN, I AM NOT TAKING ANY CONTROLLED OR LEGAL STATE-ALTERING SUBSTANCES AT THIS TIME. PLEASE PERUSE SOME OTHER WHINY JOURNAL. That's getting tiring. I wonder if it will ever stop.
I believe I just spelled "occured" completely wrong. I also believe some of these sentences would be rewritten if this was, indeed, meant to be turned in to my 8th grade English teacher. Alas, it is not . . . this is streaming, and stopping it will not be tolerated in this circumstance. My very tone is changing, phrase by phrase. Interesting.
This isn't the entry that was giving me a hard-on in the shower. (Yes, me. Taking a shower. At midnight. It seemed the Right Thing To Do.) Perhaps it's time to skip past the meta-writing and do that one.
Well, I did work on it for a good long time, but now I'm going to bed. I'll post it, but I'll keep it private until it's done. Keep checking my journal, it will be finished in the near future.
This is one.
As I was moving towards this end of my home, I saw a puddle of moonlight on my kitchen floor. It had been a long time since I'd smiled up at Luna from inside my warm den. As I stepped into her view, a shooting star lived its quick bright life. I drew breath and wished.
I do believe that's a sign my luck is turning again.
There's the sensation, again, of concepts like dead leaves in my brain. The wind is swirling them so quickly by me, I can barely appreciate a single one, much less catch it long enough to chisel it into this slab of stone. I think I need to learn more about meditation . . . I could be a more productive maker if I could sit still long enough to actually do something. Usually, in this mode, I find myself chasing butterflies or dancing or kissing or pursuing any of the multitude of pleasures it suddenly occurs that I must experience, and NOW. Shrooms is a shortcut to this state as well. That just occured to me. NO, MR. FBI MAN, I AM NOT TAKING ANY CONTROLLED OR LEGAL STATE-ALTERING SUBSTANCES AT THIS TIME. PLEASE PERUSE SOME OTHER WHINY JOURNAL. That's getting tiring. I wonder if it will ever stop.
I believe I just spelled "occured" completely wrong. I also believe some of these sentences would be rewritten if this was, indeed, meant to be turned in to my 8th grade English teacher. Alas, it is not . . . this is streaming, and stopping it will not be tolerated in this circumstance. My very tone is changing, phrase by phrase. Interesting.
This isn't the entry that was giving me a hard-on in the shower. (Yes, me. Taking a shower. At midnight. It seemed the Right Thing To Do.) Perhaps it's time to skip past the meta-writing and do that one.
Well, I did work on it for a good long time, but now I'm going to bed. I'll post it, but I'll keep it private until it's done. Keep checking my journal, it will be finished in the near future.