Much Ado About Nothing..
Fairly getting a breather these past few days.
Sleeping being more restless than fair.
I already know my mind's cooking up something.
It's been weeks since I last sat down with my notes and my dusty room.
With little to spare of what's left in my diary.
Yet it is rewarding to know I find calmness when I write.
For the longest time, I figured things would be better.
Define "things"?
I laughed like a fool, here where I don't feel any connection to what I'm supposed to do.
I opened my journal to March.
Boxes with numbers and notes.
Almost there.
The years closing down to months, and a few weeks.
These "things" I spoke about are falling into place one by one, leaving my patience wearing particularly and oddly thin.
I wasn't doing enough work to get where I want.
Even if I felt I knew I was pushing myself, I still fall short.
Beat.
I could barely pick up myself to get out of bed.
Most willing to crash this random routine out of the window and get my passion back to the table.
The flesh is weak, yes.
My mind?
In need of a jumpstart. A reset.
Keeping my sanity within grasp is a task.
Almost there.
Yet, what of "there" and "here" being equally the same mean?
What becomes of the common phrase;
"I wish I was there.."
or
"Here is where I want to be.."
So when being THERE, makes it a HERE, I fear I might wish for another THERE.
The idea of it does not confine itself.
A situation, ambition, an object or desire.
It is foolish of me to think that "there" is better than "here".
I sit quietly by myself.
A terrace. A small round table, two folding chairs, a slightly worn out industrial fan softly blowing the pages of Mitch Albom's Tuesdays with Morrie.
A book I've been reading and putting down - it's such a shame to not finish such a short book.
My old phone beeping annoying advertisements.
An opened bag of local nacho chips, less the dip.
There's this fettuccini from last night's take out, sitting on the table.
An hour ago or so from the microwave, it looked really inviting, as if freshly served from Pancake House.
Been drinking iced tea that mimics brandy.
With that in place, I mirror an alcoholic writer struggling with words.
Reminds me of Paul Kemp from The Rum Diary.
Disarraying my table is an ashtray with a cigarette I lit up a few minutes ago, completely forgot about that.
I had a rush for a drag.
I could leave it as it is, have it burn all the way - but the striking odor of burning foam filter is repulsive.
It merely was just about lighting up that gave me the blitz.
I got this text message from a friend while I was trying to find solitude in that moment that bored me.
If I may quote:
"..missing someone isn't about how long it's been since you've last seen them or the amount of time you've spent together - it's about the very moment when you're doing something and you wished that they were right there with you.."
I'd like to share my thoughts about this.
I wanted to deny it, but that few minutes stated reality.
But I am missing someone I haven't met yet.
No one ideal I know.
It sounds so out-of-this-world crazy, I know.
Yet it clings to an emotion for a person.
What kind of reasoning am I playing with?
Its semblance is surreal.
Just a passing thought.
The message made sense and no sense at the same time.
Lastly, its odd to note that I feel glad my computer crashed.
Every virtual memento, every lyric and note, messages, lost to I don't know where, need I say more.
My mind is everywhere and nowhere.
I should get back to writing - the only thing I know I can do.
Its been so much past due and I'm quite ashamed.
I've been squandering the time wherein I should've been more productive.
Much ado.
Sleeping being more restless than fair.
I already know my mind's cooking up something.
It's been weeks since I last sat down with my notes and my dusty room.
With little to spare of what's left in my diary.
Yet it is rewarding to know I find calmness when I write.
For the longest time, I figured things would be better.
Define "things"?
I laughed like a fool, here where I don't feel any connection to what I'm supposed to do.
I opened my journal to March.
Boxes with numbers and notes.
Almost there.
The years closing down to months, and a few weeks.
These "things" I spoke about are falling into place one by one, leaving my patience wearing particularly and oddly thin.
I wasn't doing enough work to get where I want.
Even if I felt I knew I was pushing myself, I still fall short.
Beat.
I could barely pick up myself to get out of bed.
Most willing to crash this random routine out of the window and get my passion back to the table.
The flesh is weak, yes.
My mind?
In need of a jumpstart. A reset.
Keeping my sanity within grasp is a task.
Almost there.
Yet, what of "there" and "here" being equally the same mean?
What becomes of the common phrase;
"I wish I was there.."
or
"Here is where I want to be.."
So when being THERE, makes it a HERE, I fear I might wish for another THERE.
The idea of it does not confine itself.
A situation, ambition, an object or desire.
It is foolish of me to think that "there" is better than "here".
I sit quietly by myself.
A terrace. A small round table, two folding chairs, a slightly worn out industrial fan softly blowing the pages of Mitch Albom's Tuesdays with Morrie.
A book I've been reading and putting down - it's such a shame to not finish such a short book.
My old phone beeping annoying advertisements.
An opened bag of local nacho chips, less the dip.
There's this fettuccini from last night's take out, sitting on the table.
An hour ago or so from the microwave, it looked really inviting, as if freshly served from Pancake House.
Been drinking iced tea that mimics brandy.
With that in place, I mirror an alcoholic writer struggling with words.
Reminds me of Paul Kemp from The Rum Diary.
Disarraying my table is an ashtray with a cigarette I lit up a few minutes ago, completely forgot about that.
I had a rush for a drag.
I could leave it as it is, have it burn all the way - but the striking odor of burning foam filter is repulsive.
It merely was just about lighting up that gave me the blitz.
I got this text message from a friend while I was trying to find solitude in that moment that bored me.
If I may quote:
"..missing someone isn't about how long it's been since you've last seen them or the amount of time you've spent together - it's about the very moment when you're doing something and you wished that they were right there with you.."
I'd like to share my thoughts about this.
I wanted to deny it, but that few minutes stated reality.
But I am missing someone I haven't met yet.
No one ideal I know.
It sounds so out-of-this-world crazy, I know.
Yet it clings to an emotion for a person.
What kind of reasoning am I playing with?
Its semblance is surreal.
Just a passing thought.
The message made sense and no sense at the same time.
Lastly, its odd to note that I feel glad my computer crashed.
Every virtual memento, every lyric and note, messages, lost to I don't know where, need I say more.
I have more time now rebuilding than pondering on foolish things.
Again, "things."My mind is everywhere and nowhere.
I should get back to writing - the only thing I know I can do.
Its been so much past due and I'm quite ashamed.
I've been squandering the time wherein I should've been more productive.
Much ado.
