When I write not to be read, the effort eludes me. It is almost as if telling a bedtime story to myself. I still, completely, and the river of ideas simmers. I put whatever on the page just for the sake of laying it to rest, of seeing it. I experience a calm fascination with things existing within my scope. I am reminded of how disturbed I'd be if anything was to break the dense slowness of the feeling. I live, and I do so knowing that I will not anymore, outside of the moment. It's my place and mine alone, a fort in the corner of the room, fit for one. Only when I allow myself that retreat do I ever become aware of my being. Outside, I truly adore my people, I love the merciless rush of time, I enjoy life moving in ways beyond my understanding and I accept how overwhelmed I am by it all, but I simply do not wish for the presence of any of that when I finally get to truly be alone. If anything, it is only possible to savour upon learning how to chew. I'd been swallowing and choking for a long time, naturally because I'd been desperately hungry.
There is an aftertaste to everything, and very narrow chance to be selective about one's pallet. All I can do is take and murmur a 'thank you' to the world. Amongst the foul flavors of misfortunes I sometimes land sweetness that overshadows them for days to come, like hard candy.
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