:D
No, I can't really say I am tired. More like.. bored :P
I need to clean my bed, stack away my old notes, and buy new clothes so I can fix myself. And maybe moments from now I will be wishing for the next two weeks to pass by in just one second. Sometimes I wish people don't have to sleep at all. No exhaustion, tired eyes and lonely dreams. Life goes on without any stop signs and rests. That way I don't have to wake up every morning and do routines. I admit it, I'm workaholic :D
April 16, 2006
It’s 3:33 am on the clock. Floor is freezing. Something playing in the background. No lights up ahead. A wall fan is humming. The dune, yes, the dune. The book perhaps? Or was it a message from above? I randomly collect my thoughts, but then again, being sober is not my greatest suit. Being alive maybe? Or asleep? Or maybe cooking? Nah. Not really. Though some random things are significant. Out of the blue and instinctive, yes; but rubbish, maybe not.
Maybe. Yes, true. But not so.
Contradicting myself is what I am best at. And I love it. Contradicting myself while listening to a foreign song and holding back my yawn. Sleep? No. Tired, yes. Very much indeed. Up to my very bones. To my very soul. To the very core of my exhausted passion.
For what? The puppy is asleep; I try not to wake her up. Oh, yes, for writing of course. What else could be there? Inside of me. Inside of my thoughts. Only writing. And writing. And more writing. Then maybe cooking at the end, not for me but for the puppy. Who else?
It’s getting dark, although it’s approaching sunlight. That is weird. Or is it? Imagination? I tell you not. Never. In a thousand years, or perhaps a decade less, a generation younger. Imagination is what makes the eyes see enormous things. Enormous details in such tiny domain. Water instead of light. Red instead of black. And clouds instead of rain. Creativity? Yes, at some point. At many points: A and B, then C and D until it reaches the very end of the plane. Although, is there an end?
To a rainbow, there is none. This is a fact. There is none. An end is only a mystery, nothing more and a little less. But contradicting myself is what I am best at. So perhaps there is an end to all of these?
Do you? Want?
Just maybe. An end to all these? You wonder, to what? To where? And how much? Another implication of the foreign sound my ears are hearing at the moment. Another ark building in the depths of my. Yes, heart, a red mango-shaped organ that pumps blood. Red over the black. A rainbow in the sky. Going across the plane and into an endless pit.
But to where? And when can you reach it? I?
No. Not I. But you. We, never. Write to me. Fast. When you get home. Because at writing, it is where I am best at, oh, yes, I apologize. Second best at. Bow. No applause?
Maybe not. Maybe later. Maybe a second more and a year past. Clarity is second in the worst suits in my life.
I need to clean my bed, stack away my old notes, and buy new clothes so I can fix myself. And maybe moments from now I will be wishing for the next two weeks to pass by in just one second. Sometimes I wish people don't have to sleep at all. No exhaustion, tired eyes and lonely dreams. Life goes on without any stop signs and rests. That way I don't have to wake up every morning and do routines. I admit it, I'm workaholic :D
April 16, 2006
It’s 3:33 am on the clock. Floor is freezing. Something playing in the background. No lights up ahead. A wall fan is humming. The dune, yes, the dune. The book perhaps? Or was it a message from above? I randomly collect my thoughts, but then again, being sober is not my greatest suit. Being alive maybe? Or asleep? Or maybe cooking? Nah. Not really. Though some random things are significant. Out of the blue and instinctive, yes; but rubbish, maybe not.
Maybe. Yes, true. But not so.
Contradicting myself is what I am best at. And I love it. Contradicting myself while listening to a foreign song and holding back my yawn. Sleep? No. Tired, yes. Very much indeed. Up to my very bones. To my very soul. To the very core of my exhausted passion.
For what? The puppy is asleep; I try not to wake her up. Oh, yes, for writing of course. What else could be there? Inside of me. Inside of my thoughts. Only writing. And writing. And more writing. Then maybe cooking at the end, not for me but for the puppy. Who else?
It’s getting dark, although it’s approaching sunlight. That is weird. Or is it? Imagination? I tell you not. Never. In a thousand years, or perhaps a decade less, a generation younger. Imagination is what makes the eyes see enormous things. Enormous details in such tiny domain. Water instead of light. Red instead of black. And clouds instead of rain. Creativity? Yes, at some point. At many points: A and B, then C and D until it reaches the very end of the plane. Although, is there an end?
To a rainbow, there is none. This is a fact. There is none. An end is only a mystery, nothing more and a little less. But contradicting myself is what I am best at. So perhaps there is an end to all of these?
Do you? Want?
Just maybe. An end to all these? You wonder, to what? To where? And how much? Another implication of the foreign sound my ears are hearing at the moment. Another ark building in the depths of my. Yes, heart, a red mango-shaped organ that pumps blood. Red over the black. A rainbow in the sky. Going across the plane and into an endless pit.
But to where? And when can you reach it? I?
No. Not I. But you. We, never. Write to me. Fast. When you get home. Because at writing, it is where I am best at, oh, yes, I apologize. Second best at. Bow. No applause?
Maybe not. Maybe later. Maybe a second more and a year past. Clarity is second in the worst suits in my life.