It's that time again. The dreaming swooping soaring quiet-loud red-orange-black time.
A whole day lost yet again in translation and I have nothing to say except what comes after the waiting?
Strokes on white canvas like a sea-song to a lover no longer there: grey-green and purple-red and more soul-baring than anything you've ever seen or heard before.
I sit here and revolve around the transparent fact that these and mine are all we have here and now: that the dreamers and dancers might just be incompetent:
incoherent fools outside the midnight hour: the closedness and hiding behind sheets of paper so large you never have to come out to face it all again.
And now we come to rest yet again on the might-be and the might-not-be:
the inexhaustible maniacal planning of a trip that will happen in five-minutes ten-hours two-weeks five-years forever.
How sad is it that this is the one thing that focuses me and brings me back to the frontline like nothing else can, not even your lovely notions of heart and your media idealism: cows jumping over the moon and cousins unconsciously drowning and fathers disapproving of daughters disappearing into the sky for years and years on end?
Oh sky.
I have been thinking that selfishness is essential for personal happiness.
No more the yes-no-maybe of the things you don't like and the polite demure child that constitutes what is right.
Another midnight and I tumble over into unsecurity where the red waves are larger than large and I find myself under the wildsome water that feels more like home than anything I ever saw or felt here: looking through unhuman eyes at people who cannot see me cannot hear me cannot breathe me in.
Paper floods the table in the dark: wont with the wild dreams of a woman-child and figures and names of towns and islands and bus stops and train tickets and flight numbers and hostels and wondrous places I will fly to like a bird going home.
See, midnight. We hold the war here undoubtedly. Past eons and time. Until the day I leave.
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