many a midnight has come and gone without knowing it’s the center of someone’s world. pushing back on the day’s impending envelope i pretend it’s better to wait and be surprised, than to move with any degree of certainty. listening to breath, spiritual aspects of being aware come to mind, and very briefly a struggle ensues, one where i lie and pretend it’ll get better, and one where i lie and pretend it will get worse.

there are thirty-two journals stacked next to my desk, most filled with words i’ll never look at again, but words i’d decided not long ago to leave behind, thinking my secret thoughts might be a better teacher than my open communications. i’m staring at the collection of instruments we’ve collected over the years, and finding it humourous to have ultimately landed on my voice.

sadness, for all its wit doesn’t elicit laughter so much as awe for the strength of its grip. sometimes it isn’t clear who’s holding on to who, though i pray sometimes to let it all go, finding his hand to be the missing appendage to the archaic ramblings of my longing.

a fan blows. it is black but is also white noise. i wonder if duality is the nature of all things that pacify one’s uncontrolled fire.

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