i've got a plan, to-get-us-out-of-here
I’m sitting here tonight with my fingers moving, staccato-like. The rest of me? Barely.
My days moving, step wise. Hour by hour, dragged by time. My resolve… not really. Trying to maybe, still this unrest in my heart with words, like I used to do and always did. Wrapped under the sheets just now, I was breathing and yet not really - what I read flashing a little through my head and yet not really registering. The only thing that could soothe that feeling of not-sleeping-and-yet-wanting-to, was perhaps, livejournal
Although the light glaring at my face contradicts all sleep theory I’ve learnt.
Ah, well
I remember this thought pattern well, and the familiarity it gives me
typing to a song, letting my emotions unravel themselves at night where I could string them together - add a preposition and color it past tense - call it beautiful
In Primary school, sitting trishaw style in my scratchy stool - thinking up roleplay actions for my Watery character lifted off Cardcaptor Sakura
In Secondary school, walking to school in the early dawn. Putting my feelings into verbal prose along Cedar Avenue. Whole, fluffy pancake-like paragraphs before I reached the side gate
I could call myself a sporadic hobbyist. Most of the time, I’m distracted by life, sucked in the uselessness of trivial things I like to do to waste my time. Dust gathers up, softening the edges of myself, until it gets so itchy. So, so itchy, that I end up
Here again, typing and reliving the moments when I was young. I used to ‘type’ an adoring post about how much I loved writing on my many blogs almost every year, and I loved it. Some of that feeling is back again, but I don’t have to put it here out loud anymore.
That’s how love grows, doesn’t it. Young and adolescent, it crows and boasts like it rightfully should, unafraid of its tethers because it’s too busy looking up to see that they exist. When it gets older, it mellows down and gets over itself, just a little.
I wonder, what will I ever do with this love in my life
But I sense that what’s special to me is in its idleness, like cornflakes waiting for milk (what? Uhm)
rather that guiding it towards anything productive
My days moving, step wise. Hour by hour, dragged by time. My resolve… not really. Trying to maybe, still this unrest in my heart with words, like I used to do and always did. Wrapped under the sheets just now, I was breathing and yet not really - what I read flashing a little through my head and yet not really registering. The only thing that could soothe that feeling of not-sleeping-and-yet-wanting-to, was perhaps, livejournal
Although the light glaring at my face contradicts all sleep theory I’ve learnt.
Ah, well
I remember this thought pattern well, and the familiarity it gives me
typing to a song, letting my emotions unravel themselves at night where I could string them together - add a preposition and color it past tense - call it beautiful
In Primary school, sitting trishaw style in my scratchy stool - thinking up roleplay actions for my Watery character lifted off Cardcaptor Sakura
In Secondary school, walking to school in the early dawn. Putting my feelings into verbal prose along Cedar Avenue. Whole, fluffy pancake-like paragraphs before I reached the side gate
I could call myself a sporadic hobbyist. Most of the time, I’m distracted by life, sucked in the uselessness of trivial things I like to do to waste my time. Dust gathers up, softening the edges of myself, until it gets so itchy. So, so itchy, that I end up
Here again, typing and reliving the moments when I was young. I used to ‘type’ an adoring post about how much I loved writing on my many blogs almost every year, and I loved it. Some of that feeling is back again, but I don’t have to put it here out loud anymore.
That’s how love grows, doesn’t it. Young and adolescent, it crows and boasts like it rightfully should, unafraid of its tethers because it’s too busy looking up to see that they exist. When it gets older, it mellows down and gets over itself, just a little.
I wonder, what will I ever do with this love in my life
But I sense that what’s special to me is in its idleness, like cornflakes waiting for milk (what? Uhm)
rather that guiding it towards anything productive