12/28/2023
7:18PM
The sunset this evening was orange and pink, pink and blue, but soon the blue greed of the sky swallowed the other colors up and stretched across, leaving no fading smear of the day. I was pleased throughout the whole ride home, I felt light and inexistent. I made note to jot down these exact words down once I got home, and that too drew a smile out of me, which I bit in instinctively. I suspect my brain does not like my recent anaesthesia sleep. I close my eyes and I open them again, I savor about ten to thirty minutes of pure, sweet, excruciatingly sweet melange of darkness and quiet and my bones sinking the bottom of my anchored body, and then nothing but the whiteness of dawn can make clear the distinction between day and day anymore. Of course there are dreams in between, but those are but a blink or two of old terrors. It all got old, everything does. I find myself wondering if fear eventually falls flat and defeated because, even though it changes its robes, it never changes its face. If anything, whatever used to make me wake up in cold sweat simply leaves me with a little of discomfort now. I shrug it off and go on. It is supposed to be a good thing, but I dislike being disappointed by things I thought grand before. I believed extremes made living, and that being overwhelmed was a natural state. All space-black shadows seem to be produced by the mice in the tunnels of my mind, and the northern star is just another light atop a skyscraper. I am going to die of boredom, disappointment after disappointment, boredom again, bland tasting soups, a seemingly knowledgeable person being full of air, doves being paperbags, someone offering me warm water when I'm thirsty, books that I finish just to not like, showing a good film to a tasteless coworker who simply makes jokes about it afterwards, gums without teeth, teeth that don't grind, vocal tract and no voice, boredom...et cetera, et cetera. I wish daily life was more like music, where twelve notes can weave out endless ethers and subterranean hidden societies and entangled woods, where each song possesses a breath of its own. Life, at least from where I am, shamelessly assembles its million pieces into the same ten pictures everyday, hands them around, and whoever knows where its secret stash of colorful shards lay can make a mosaic of their own. People are persistent, though, and polite; they will not dare demand more, but they will tear their ten pictures to the tiniest of shreds, and take their sweet time gluing up different scenes, afraid that that's where it ends for them if they do it too fast. I am rude. My hand is sneaking into life's pocket as I write, and in a minute, I will acquire one new note that I can glimpse at the bottom. I make do with my pictures, I look at them, I describe them, I repaint them and draw on them, I write about them, I obscure my vision and re-imagine them whole and fully vivid, I tell the grey from the carmin, I catch the same patterns again and again as they slip and change into other shapes. I make do with it all and I -surprisingly, always surprisingly- claw the enjoyment out of its undeserving cadaver and it becomes rightfully mine, but that will never mean that this is where I will stop.
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