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.

03:30 AM

the wind howls torrents of frozen water at the window, at the trees and buildings and the city, and i sit here. nothing changes the fact that right now i sit here while i could be wrapped in my blanket, the safe warm haven of comfort where i could have dreams of feelings for anyone i like, where words on our lips are condensed into a language of tongue against tongue and we can do anything and go anywhere. where there's no consequence and no moral obligations and no logic and i'm not, at least for a few hours (which can be a few days in dream-time), so barren and deprived and thirsty and dry. nothing changes that fact until it's time for me to force myself to sleep, when it's not right now anymore. but until then, i can only wait. and that brutal gust keeps screaming and blows my sleep and dreams away.

(at around 03:30 am, as suggested by the title.)