Not feeling very well at all.
Work at office is many little disjointed things. People with little imagination and lesser ability.
But then, when was it ever different? And where was it ever different?
As for writing, there is little that has happened. Health has been down, though I am fighting it. Desperately. Do not want to go down the degenerate road.
But don't feel well. And what's scary is that I am not too sure if it is the body or it is the mind. Or something else.
My nerves are completely frayed. And I am unable to focus on my thoughts that lead to writing.
Will I even out?
When will it happen?
When will the ordeal end?
How much lonnger?
Monday, July 17, 2006
Snatches Wisps Slivers Crags
"Go take a walk. All of you. I mean, everyone can go take a walk. When it comes to me, sorry, I am selfish. I like my career. It's important to me. It's important to me. I mean that's more important to me than anyone. Even you. No, that's true."
- and what about the cold breeze i have left bridled between the rocks for you my love, and what about the sunrise that waits behind an unmade house, and what about the windows that are waiting to be opened and a fire that is waiting to be kindled in the hearth?"
So I say man, what passes is just a dream. In ten years time no one remembers a thing. No, it's a fact. No one remembers. That's why god's given us this ability to forget. That's life. One can take anything. This too will pass. There's nothing that will remain. So what the fuck! One ought to do what one wants."
- so what was it about the lines i have etched on my skin? why do they refuse to go? why is your palm etcheh on my body? why can i not erase you from the markings between my fingers? and even if it grows old, i think the legs still remember how they once crawled, and the lips without teeth remember how it was to have spoken the magic words, perfectly pronounced, softly uttered under the breath.
- and what about the cold breeze i have left bridled between the rocks for you my love, and what about the sunrise that waits behind an unmade house, and what about the windows that are waiting to be opened and a fire that is waiting to be kindled in the hearth?"
So I say man, what passes is just a dream. In ten years time no one remembers a thing. No, it's a fact. No one remembers. That's why god's given us this ability to forget. That's life. One can take anything. This too will pass. There's nothing that will remain. So what the fuck! One ought to do what one wants."
- so what was it about the lines i have etched on my skin? why do they refuse to go? why is your palm etcheh on my body? why can i not erase you from the markings between my fingers? and even if it grows old, i think the legs still remember how they once crawled, and the lips without teeth remember how it was to have spoken the magic words, perfectly pronounced, softly uttered under the breath.
The Animal Is Angry
In the middle of the storm is the moving of eyes now. Morning is rush. Work is a wheel.
Hunger does not want food.
Blindness does not want eyes.
And what you want kept gets broken. And what you want broken gets broken. And nothing gets built.
And these hands that seem mine, that are torn from me, one to seek, one seeked by the storm, will be seen as the hands that disturbed the winds.
And no one will know of the animals that thrashed about behind the mountains and under the earth, that raised this madness from beneath and from behind.
Hunger does not want food.
Blindness does not want eyes.
And what you want kept gets broken. And what you want broken gets broken. And nothing gets built.
And these hands that seem mine, that are torn from me, one to seek, one seeked by the storm, will be seen as the hands that disturbed the winds.
And no one will know of the animals that thrashed about behind the mountains and under the earth, that raised this madness from beneath and from behind.
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