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Sunrise. Cityglow. The light coming into the livingroom was orange with the streetlights outside, like something from a pit of hell in an illustration but very peaceful. Now the computer cools it into something chill and white.
I really don't have anything to say. What do you say?
I could say thank you. I could say, oh, I'm scared, I don't want this again. I could say them both at once, but really-- I won't, I can't, until (oh goodness) something sweeps me along into the future and past the what, five day point?
Look at that. It's the future again. It's not the predictable future anymore. I suppose it never was, but now it lumbers back into my field of view. Don't get too complacent, it says to me.
Hah.
He reminds me a bunch of Jan. He reminds me a bunch of a lot of people, but he isn't any of them. He's sort of in some ways a collection of external impressions that's too complicated for me to reduce into an easy conceptual core. I wonder if that's something in him, or if it's me growing up, or if it too will pass?
Everything in me has settled into peace for a moment. Here, there is someone asleep in an empty room. Here, there are shadows on the hardwood floor and the sound of breathing. Here, there is a distant voice talking on the telephone at five am. And, here is me, typing, because I need to express something that I just don't know how to express and so instead I turn to the old warm comfort of words.
There's that fine numinous pain rising. There's that awe, the wonder that life can be so... ever-changing, totally detailed and rich and complete and never predictable and yet never, really, surprising. Wow, I'm babbling. It's five am and I just got more sleep than I have for a number of nights. Now I'm awake, restless, and my teeth are fuzzy.
That's the operative word. Now. Now, now, now. I can't live in the future-- I can't see it. I can't live in the past; it's changed. I'm now.
(On the custard-filled wafers we got from the Japanese food store that was the slogan. It's now! IT's now!)
Goodnight. Sleep well. Be happy.
I really don't have anything to say. What do you say?
I could say thank you. I could say, oh, I'm scared, I don't want this again. I could say them both at once, but really-- I won't, I can't, until (oh goodness) something sweeps me along into the future and past the what, five day point?
Look at that. It's the future again. It's not the predictable future anymore. I suppose it never was, but now it lumbers back into my field of view. Don't get too complacent, it says to me.
Hah.
He reminds me a bunch of Jan. He reminds me a bunch of a lot of people, but he isn't any of them. He's sort of in some ways a collection of external impressions that's too complicated for me to reduce into an easy conceptual core. I wonder if that's something in him, or if it's me growing up, or if it too will pass?
Everything in me has settled into peace for a moment. Here, there is someone asleep in an empty room. Here, there are shadows on the hardwood floor and the sound of breathing. Here, there is a distant voice talking on the telephone at five am. And, here is me, typing, because I need to express something that I just don't know how to express and so instead I turn to the old warm comfort of words.
There's that fine numinous pain rising. There's that awe, the wonder that life can be so... ever-changing, totally detailed and rich and complete and never predictable and yet never, really, surprising. Wow, I'm babbling. It's five am and I just got more sleep than I have for a number of nights. Now I'm awake, restless, and my teeth are fuzzy.
That's the operative word. Now. Now, now, now. I can't live in the future-- I can't see it. I can't live in the past; it's changed. I'm now.
(On the custard-filled wafers we got from the Japanese food store that was the slogan. It's now! IT's now!)
Goodnight. Sleep well. Be happy.
