(no subject)
I spend the first few hours quietly reading. There is no music, there is no talking, there are no people. There is the noise of outside, the low murmur of thousands of people entering then exiting my life, unknown to them and unknown of me. I read. I do not read often, I do not read as much as I think I should, and it is harder these days to find the quietness to read.
After, I walk to the bathroom and urinate. The sound breaks the spell of hours and I am no longer in the mood to read. I am there for some time - not to imply length - watching temporal waste exit my body. I watch with one mind, while with the other I idly pick at scabs. They come off in my mind's hand, but they are ready to come off; there is no welling of blood behind them. I am saddened, for I miss what the blood represents. The ritual ends, and I am done with transitions. I sit down and begin to write. There is no music, there is no talking, there are no people. There is the noise of outside. It is enough for me to write.
After, I walk to the bathroom and urinate. The sound breaks the spell of hours and I am no longer in the mood to read. I am there for some time - not to imply length - watching temporal waste exit my body. I watch with one mind, while with the other I idly pick at scabs. They come off in my mind's hand, but they are ready to come off; there is no welling of blood behind them. I am saddened, for I miss what the blood represents. The ritual ends, and I am done with transitions. I sit down and begin to write. There is no music, there is no talking, there are no people. There is the noise of outside. It is enough for me to write.