salience
June 30, 2003
From earlier today:
12:50 AM.
Can't. Sleep.
Don't really want to sleep. Odd.
I am usually the first to say sleeping is my favorite pasttime.
But then, these are strange days. Ones when I don't even recognize my own handwriting, anymore. Instead of my fingers guiding the pen, ink takes responsibility for these words, revealing a penmanship known only to my mind: a mental manuscript too personal to share.
When I close my eyes, words flash brilliant across the dark expanse of my mind, unrelenting in their vividness, screaming for escape.
So here I am... holding a Crowne Plaza hotel pen, swiped from an accomodation I have never utilized, whispering an 1 800 number I have never dialed, waiting to realize some heartsong my mind is trying to decipher.
And then...
The fog lifts: I recognize my hand forming these letters, as if for the first time. A melody remembered in a dimension of staff and key.
White to black. Memory to melody.
Dreams.
Now.
As I get closer and closer to attaining what I want most, as I can make out the opaque outline of the future, I understand I am the only one who can get in my way.
Morality dictates constant inner struggle, yet I no longer have a need for subconscious escape from myself.
What could be a sweeter tangible than my reality?
1:12 AM
12:50 AM.
Can't. Sleep.
Don't really want to sleep. Odd.
I am usually the first to say sleeping is my favorite pasttime.
But then, these are strange days. Ones when I don't even recognize my own handwriting, anymore. Instead of my fingers guiding the pen, ink takes responsibility for these words, revealing a penmanship known only to my mind: a mental manuscript too personal to share.
When I close my eyes, words flash brilliant across the dark expanse of my mind, unrelenting in their vividness, screaming for escape.
So here I am... holding a Crowne Plaza hotel pen, swiped from an accomodation I have never utilized, whispering an 1 800 number I have never dialed, waiting to realize some heartsong my mind is trying to decipher.
And then...
The fog lifts: I recognize my hand forming these letters, as if for the first time. A melody remembered in a dimension of staff and key.
White to black. Memory to melody.
Dreams.
Now.
As I get closer and closer to attaining what I want most, as I can make out the opaque outline of the future, I understand I am the only one who can get in my way.
Morality dictates constant inner struggle, yet I no longer have a need for subconscious escape from myself.
What could be a sweeter tangible than my reality?
1:12 AM
lasaliente, 08:14
