the water has boiled, the noodles are settling// the music is going// my cup is filled// my thirst is quenched// dinner is in the making// i check on the noodles// walking back to my computer i start to develop different ways to portray my ideas// i'm one mouse click away from manifesting something that generated from the questionable// sometimes i don't understand the reasons things work the way they do, but it makes so much sense// the possibilities are endless, but there's only one sensical way// there's also dramatic ways to portray the simple, but these days anything is possible// i'm listening to coral wonder by george fenton, i'm looking at my fingers type// how did i develop the coordination to type this?// everything really is a practice.... just imagine exchanging the doing of texting into learning the violing and maybe even// becoming the worlds greatest player// then again, that's a lot of texting.... a lot of practice// i don't think communication is meant to be a tiring thing, i think that's why people text like crazy// whatever though// is it weird to miss someone who died before you were born?// i feel that way about john lennon and charles bukowski....// i want to live to see the day when i can see their motives reflecting on me// i can't wrap my head around how much expression they have generated from within....//
I have been stuck in this dream since I fell asleep: I am standing alone in the corner of an elevator which is moving upwards slowly and silently. The elevator smells like my old dance studio where I learned ballet when I was younger. The elevator reaches the first floor above ground level:
12am. The doors open and I see myself in reality as the clock strikes twelve near my table where I sit typing away at my computer. Here is where I find myself caught between choosing to go to sleep or continuing to stay awake. As usual, I choose the latter and as the minute hand slowly advances so does the elevator.
2am. I am caught transitioning from 1am to 3am, from late at night to approaching the morning. This is when I find myself lying awake in bed, empty and hollow. My head is brimming with ideas for writing and I project these pieces of poetry onto the ceiling. I take out a magazine from the nightstand and read until my eyes grow tired.
4am. But I am not sleepy yet. I hear the silent rumbling of bus engines in the distance, the yawns of people waking up at this hour to go to work or take a jog before sunrise. The inconsistent pattern of cars driving past keep me awake, watching the shadows dance across my curtains. I find myself to be most productive at this time, my body grows tired but my mind is not.
6am. The elevator doors open to shades of orange and pink seeping into the clouds. I realise that my night awake has been unproductive and I step out of the elevator and awake from my dream.
Reality 2.0. I am putting on my school uniform and drinking a glass of cold water. Now the road is filled with cars and buses, the sun is starting to shine and it is as though the night had never happened. It is as though I had slept for hours, and woken up fresh.
This has been clockwork poetry for as long as I can remember.
- stargazing - take some chalk and make a masterpiece - karaoke - bookstore: we both buy a book for the other to read - go for a drive - volunteer at a soup kitchen or animal shelter (or anyplace else) - go to the library and read together - build a fort and watch your favorite movies while you educate me about why they’re great - we can write a story together while sitting in starbucks - campfire - talking about life while listening to chill music