greenstorm (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
greenstorm) wrote2013-09-20 03:02 pm
greenstorm) wrote2013-09-20 03:02 pm
Always Titled
I want to write.
Usually night is a time full of words for me, but I've been spending nights with people, and the words have been spoken. Desire for conversation spins on a little while after the conversation has finished, then I sleep and care for my body instead of journalling. Now it's afternoon, a free hour or two in the plod of work, and I have my laptop. I've put on Loscil, a gift long ago from Graydon (it will always bring back the view from that apartment), and the music is filling my head nearly to the exclusion of all else.
Still, I want to write. Not, as so often, because my head is full of pretty words; now I want to write as a recorder, as a communicator, to engrave my current self on the basically uncaring awareness of my future self.
I want to say: I feel love. I want to say: people are beautiful, each in such diverse ways. I want to say: pressure is the enemy of desire. I want to say: I can't always control my future, but when I can it's less worth living. I want to say: you're right. I like the confusion. I need my world to be, not just bigger than I can encompass with my intellect, but roiling enough that my ribcage stays half-shut, sheltering my heart frm the maelstrom but not able to close up completely.
I don't know what will happen next. The present is a series of faces, overlaid with the narration of my own voice. Perhaps in time a pattern will emerge.
Usually night is a time full of words for me, but I've been spending nights with people, and the words have been spoken. Desire for conversation spins on a little while after the conversation has finished, then I sleep and care for my body instead of journalling. Now it's afternoon, a free hour or two in the plod of work, and I have my laptop. I've put on Loscil, a gift long ago from Graydon (it will always bring back the view from that apartment), and the music is filling my head nearly to the exclusion of all else.
Still, I want to write. Not, as so often, because my head is full of pretty words; now I want to write as a recorder, as a communicator, to engrave my current self on the basically uncaring awareness of my future self.
I want to say: I feel love. I want to say: people are beautiful, each in such diverse ways. I want to say: pressure is the enemy of desire. I want to say: I can't always control my future, but when I can it's less worth living. I want to say: you're right. I like the confusion. I need my world to be, not just bigger than I can encompass with my intellect, but roiling enough that my ribcage stays half-shut, sheltering my heart frm the maelstrom but not able to close up completely.
I don't know what will happen next. The present is a series of faces, overlaid with the narration of my own voice. Perhaps in time a pattern will emerge.