12th of September, 2011

I could drink cartons of this juice, the taste is just right for tonight, though I much prefer wine. I always smoke too much and speak too little because that's the way I've been raised; hoarse voice and shy words born under a false name, behind the wrong face and always late. What's real is a mystery, a story, a part of some mythos whispered by the native people of me that I could not hear, for all the ears are pointed outwards taking in new parts to the tale. If I ever had anything interesting to say or the words to do so, I'd tell you. I'd tell you of the wanting to choke on love and of wanting more chocolate even though the sweetness in my mouth is all too choking already. That I live on sweetness and rain and on nights washed with purple and dim orange lights. I could talk of the need for disappearing and company, for feeling and being felt. I'd tell you I'm not here. I am not here. This is not my place and I'm not this place and it's not me in here. I'd gladly whisper my whole life away if only I remembered half of it. I like to wade knee-deep in the thought that nothing ever happens because time drifts away so fast and now I only remember this juice. It could be any flavour, cranberries or grapes or apples or oranges; it could be a yearning for a kiss or not sleeping alone or the work of hands. It's whatever that makes me and these nights flow like water from clouds to puddles to sidewalks and down the storm drain to the sea and up, up to the sky again. Though I am often miserable or apathetic I'm never truly bored, I could spend a lifetime just thinking and feeling all that surrounds me, smoking too much and speaking too little. Wherever or whatever I am.