So today one of them basically screamed, at the top of his lungs, the word "lesbian" all the way from his room window. To me.
And then I wrote something that might be worth turning into a song. Talk about inspiration.
One crappy post, two crappy posts.
What is the point of writing if I'm merely repeating thoughts or emotions? Does articulating it in a different fashion make my points worthy of a second validation?
Am I supposed to start all over again? No one reads this shit. Fuck.
I want to believe in something again. I want to be able to look at things that scare me and know that I have something that will stand beside me. Two weeks ago, they were just "bad things trying to get better" and now I think they're really just "bad things trying to get me down".
I want to be able to talk to Ede again. Just talk. Oh right, that's his name. But I should just get back to sleep now.
It's no longer a moment's photograph. For some reason, at this time of the day, my so-called epiphany decides to dissolve my weirdly amusing dreams.
When I took a peek, it was 5:41am. If we assume (and it's best that we do) that my time perception is correct, we can say that I've been tossing and rolling over for more than half an hour. At this point, my thoughts were no longer stimulating or exciting, at the very least, but frantic and peculiar. Swimming dresses on one of the sibling's fully-covered friend. Of course, I also hear noises. Someone, a girl perhaps, weeping. Prayers from a religious house, which one in particular I cannot say. In the olden days, they never had loudspeakers. You're not obliged to attend if it isn't withing hearing distance. This was a topic of amusement between the old man and I several weeks ago. Apart from that, I also thought I heard two gunshots but "it's the bloody dawn, and if someone is injured or killed in any part of this neighbourhood, I'll find out about it tomorrow". I tend to be most selfish in the morning. Seeing as how my attempts to shut down were futile, I stopped wrestling with the blanket.
A schoolbus passes, the sound is distinctive and nostalgic. It occured to me that kids were going to school and then I'm reminded I'm no longer a kid. It's no longer a moment's photograph, where, in my eyes, everything is still and I do not have to take part. I've taken my time, but it'll be a while before I start dancing in soirees again.
Something is in the air. We're getting agigated for no reason. I get restless and I look around at people but they're in decelerated motion, it's Portishead's Only You.
I am neither relating nor dissociating myself. It's all peculiar. I must recover soon.
You shouldn't relate so much to things that aren't relevant to what you have on your plate. Nice piece of advice, but execution will not be easy.
I wouldn't say it was a wake-up call, but I would agree it was what I needed at the time.
I know who I am. This feels good, at least for now.
I can't say I've lost my muse. I've been writing privately (as though this wasn't private already).
