A Hidden Tune

Reality slips in and out of my sleep. Questing tendrils reach into my mind and steal away my dreams. Both my worlds are fragmented, reality and dream indistinguishable. They blend into each other, and I am suspended in the limbo of half-sleep, neither resting nor awake.

My consciousness splits accordingly, two weaves of the same cloth running parallel. One plays the observer, the archivist, the other an oblivious dancer, puppet to a hidden tune. With mild interest, one watches the other, and begins to discern the steps to the dance. Each is unique, born from a moment in time, captured in memory, played in sleep. A spark of conversation, a touch of humor. A hint of hurt, shadowed by pride. Disquieting fear, and a rumor of hope.

Other dancers flow out, their steps merging seamlessly. They are in a grand ballroom, vast beyond imagining, the walls stretching away from view. As they dance, they brush against each other. Some are the barest of whispers of skin upon skin. Others are passionately locked, ignoring all around them. Some dance alone in the shadows, trapped in a monologue of their own. And yet others still, come close, tantalisingly close, but never in contact. There are those that just stand, and gaze longingly, at a dance where they have a place in, but no steps.

Abruptly they stop. Frozen in time, they start to lose their consistency. Fading away, ghosts of memories brought to life, their time is up. Reality breaks through. The realities merge, with a shudder the world settles. It is before dawn.

Wonderful Times

The early mornings are wonderful times. Fresh, sweet, crisp, the very air itself is delicious with scents, such promises the mornings hold. The near-magical sanctity of the quiet that pervades the dawn lingers on in the silent smiles that people share.

In the afternoon, the day becomes languid, and tempts you into all manner of places; that shady spot on the grass, that dancing patch of gold beneath the boughs of a tree. It almost becomes thick with apathy, such is it's demands that you be dozing, lightly resting your eyes, that the world becomes a droning, and thoughts swim laboriously through the drowsy fog.

When darkness falls, the world becomes even brighter. Senses are heightened as the world is thrown into sharp relief, and the crass and tired sense that is sight gives way to the intense ardor that is the other four. And so beguiled by the seductive mystery that flows into the corners untouched by moonlight I breathe in deeply the bewitching air...And choke, on car exhaust.


Ah, the city.

Tea, with Apples.

It is the early morning. I no longer miss the quiet sanctity of the mornings, nor do I long for the sunrise.

I am having tea, with apples.

I stayed up the whole night, and did nothing productive. I read 2 new webcomics, finished reading Orwell's Animal Farm (sub-par really, next to 1984) drew up vague outlines of my coming assignment, and spent several minutes cursing in vibrant language at various deities, karmic life plans and general idealogies.

It will be two days until my 80% paper is due. I have barely started work on this. It is likely for the remainder of today I will fall into a fitful, interrupted sleep. I will not say that I am procrastinating. The word implies that eventually, I will do the job, probably in the nick of time. No, I do not profess to be the Lord of Procrastination. Instead, I am lifting up the Ancient and Revered Art of Laziness beyond the levels mere mortals hope to achieve, transcending the mundane, and am on the very cusp of becoming the patron divinity of Laziness. And LO, I shall be a just and mighty God, for I have many worshippers, and will bestow upon them all the blessings of my soon-to-be pantheon.

Visions of madness aside, I am probably well and truly fucked for this assessment, and my divine powers do not manifest until after I fail this term.

And what is it with Karma these days? I already know that I am failing miserably in at least one aspect of my life, I really don't need all these constant reminders cropping up everywhere like really bad sitcom cliches. OK, perhaps I do, seeing as how my ego and self-confidence sometimes borders on outright arrogance and cockiness, but startlingly harsh self-examination aside, do I really deserve all this? It's not like I'm being 'tested' by some deity, as I clearly do not subscribe to any after-life insurance schemes, and so what if I'm being an asshole about some things? Being a gentleman certainly hasn't been the pinnacle of achievement, and Wilde had said that "It is absurd to divide people into good and bad. People are either charming or tedious." Then again, most of these 'failings' are by my own hand, normally in some ironic fashion or another, in an almost macabre manner by my contradicting idealism. Either they are the result of an upbringing firmly rooted in storybooks and fairytales, or from mildly disenchanting reality-induced revelations. Then again, the entire argument is rooted in morality, making the point moot.

"I can resist everything except temptation". Also, ironically, while on the subject I am using quotes from a homosexual man. Clearly this cannot be the most encouraging of things, at this moment. This might be construed as the work of an opposing deity, to hinder my ascension to God-hood. And the time spent on this post might have finished about 1/12 of my impending assignment.

AH, Irony; when wilt thou release me from thine humorous-yet-sadistic embrace? When I ascend, Thou shalt be the first to join my pantheon, and will sit at my side as Queen. The irony implicit in mine Godly logic is infallible, and it will be so.

On an entirely unrelated note, the other day I saw this dog, it was like a small pony, except with fangs and claws, and I think it could smell the souls of small children. It was called Daisy, and I petted it. Behold, it shall be the Keeper of My Underworld, and devour the souls of heathens!

I am having tea, with apples.

An Excellent Choice, Sir

I spoke a grand total of five(5!) times yesterday. And it wasn't terribly profound things, nor words of great importance.

In Saba: "Do you have this in small?" & "Thanks."

David Jones: "I'd like to buy this", "credit" & "Thanks."

I pointed at my throat and pretended to be mute everywhere else. It's not like I woke up and decided to be mute...It was just an already noisy day, and I saw no need to add to it. The wind howled all night, the streets thronged with irritating schoolgirls,
"likeohmaygawdIknowthatbitchshestolemylookletsgoMaxBee"
(real words, I swear)
and there were far too many impatient (or incompetent) drivers on the roads. The time I spent outside was with my housemate's iPod at full blast, like a veritable audio-spacesuit, shielding me from the harsh noises of humanity (ironically to be replaced by the not-so-harsh voices issuing forth from the earphones).

This is the punishment, I suppose, for waking up consistently after 3pm. That I miss the quiet sanctity of the mornings, and live instead in a constant clutter of meaningless noises. With just an iPod for protection, that I might have some choice in what I hear.

"Good evening sir. Would you like the Crapshit today, or the Shitcrap? Or perhaps I could interest you in the day's special?"

"What's the day's special?"

"Two burly men will roll you around in an enticing mix of Bull with shit and/or crap, and then slice off your ears."

"I'll take the Crapshit, thanks."

"An excellent choice, sir."

To Ignore, and be Ignored, by the World at Large.