time: 1:45pm
music: hyperballad - bjork
mood: silly!
you are your charismatic magazine!
... and it feels good to think things in the present tense like here! and now! and what of the future! filled with so much thought and purpose, though undirected, ambivalent.
and if we only let ourselves to feel.
like, if i were to stand motionless for long enough, my head reels with static. and i feel like i am falling in a fixed spot. falling. then falling. and more falling through the ceiling, the floor, the ceiling, the ground, the ceiling, and the earth.
but say, i were to sit still, the earth feels to move too fast, my head hurts and the throb cuts a piercing prick of a tiny unsterilized needle. feels to sew arteries and veins untidily together, leaving a messy pool of clogged blood. all these, i can see, and i can feel - the planets orbit.
if i close my eyes, sit unmoving in this chair, the airlessness engulfs me. i feel my fingers moving above the plastic keys, but movements are slow, sluggish, filtered through the thick perception of time. it is the dream where i walked in air dense as honey and took a dream's forever to reach an end of the room or road or bus or for my case, a train ride.
too real, much too much alive, it feels like i am in the painting; of metal and blood and chains on the floor, and there is no way i can ever ever ever get out of it all.
subjective is what it is: i cannot show you how i feel per se. and even if i were to, it wouldn't make much sense anyway. if there's one thing i've learned it's that the sun is always there for us, always up above watching over us; filling every crevice, every vessel, every organ, the landscape warm and inviting, making every night easier to bear. inevitably everything dies and every place becomes a desert, and we are constant but at the same time irrevocably we are moving! changing! understanding! until there is less and less to say.
but till i have none to speak of, here's a little rhymer i penned this morning while i was dwidling along EBSCO literature-researching (bah!):
sleep is a sallow memory
fading in my pillowtop
while you take the form of concrete
my eyes will just not stop
darting over honeyed hair
studying your breaths in synchronized notes
counting little bits of my dreams
that slip out from your throat
sleep is shaped in circles now
in cancer clouds from cigarettes
while you succumb to distant hours
my eyes cannot stop just yet
