Saturday, February 24
I've sold my soul, for a bargain,
too hastily made and not properly thought over
And now I prepare for my time in 'hell'.
There is a dearth of words, simply, because there are no words. I am lost in the stillness of inactivity much like a junky is lost in the high. There are no threats to my bubble-existence, no piercing reality, no painful quaking, there is nothing. I sleep at 2.30 in the morning and I wake up just after 1 in the afternoon. I lie in bed for about an hour, thinking, making mental poetry of the sounds that permeate my living space.
All in an earshot; I hear the splash and the thud of rain under the inevitable principle of gravity; everything falls. I hear the movement of mechanical motors, turning turbines in metal monstrosities, commuters commuting under the inevitable principle of commerce and trade; everything must prove its worth. And if I squeeze my eyes tight enough, concentrate all mental power on hearing (instead of seeing or smelling or feeling) I can almost hear atoms collide. The crazy spinning and crashing atoms, they waltz, they tango, clumsily and haphazardly, but at least even they haven't forgotten how to move to the music. The Brownian Motion; the beat is rhythmic, the beat is constant, it never changes because it is chaos.
How do I prove that my life isn't a waste? That the energies expended by my mothers and fathers have not all been for nothing. Although I believe that I am merely the product of a cold night and warm bodies, there must still be purpose for my existence. Perhaps a leather worker, a weaver, a carpenter, a poet, a painter or maybe a lover.
Yet this philosophy, this belief in my conduct, this quest for recognition and purpose just leaves me in the dark of my thoughts. The chambers resonate with the laughter I've forgotten to laugh, the halls are filled with the kinds of people I could never be or be with; the heart yearns. I want to forget the pains, I don't want to be mature, I want to go back to being that girl who never stopped smiling. I want to be that girl again, I want to smile again.
Time cannot be undone. Like a fire that consumes, time turns everything into dust and ash. So that little girl is gone, scattered in the winds, blown to distant shores.
It's a rite of passage, to show that you've grown up, reached a tier of maturity that allows you to pursue any public endeavour single-handedly. Perhaps tomorrow or the day after, when my quest is accomplished, I would have experienced the epiphany that comes with such a task.
Wish me luck, for I take my departure into the void of the unknown!
din
