I'm fading away
into the grey of my mornings
or the blues of every night
I've found myself, on more than one occasion, spontaneously writing in the wee morning hours, yesterday being no exception. I go about for pages and pages, spilling out heaps of completely abstract thoughts. Where these countless ramblings spring from I've no idea. Nor can I even begin to explain the masterplan behind posting some of them on the internet. The logic behind revealing something I on my own accord only seem to want to do in the dark in the comfort of my own bed is beyond me. Still, this is what I am going to do.
words fail me all the time
i don't even feel like talking
still I go on and on
can't we just stay silent?
speaking now seems far too violent
Suddenly, this very morning, I woke up urging inspiration. To read, to listen, to observe, to contemplate. To just be silent, and let whatever it is stir and to see what happens if I do. Today I awoke with a sense of curiosity, not only for everything around me - which is always present - but for the first time I want to know what I am capable of if I set my mind to it. To quote, I want to "explore the corners of my mind".
Yesterday sometime at night, I started writing. I wrote for hours, went to sleep at some particular moment in time, experienced some rather unsettling nightmares about certain crawling critters I cannot stand the concept of yet utter their name, woke up like the early bird and continued my quest to grasp what's in my head with a pen.
Does a person contain only a specific amount of emotional capacity for a certain timeframe? Can this capacity be exhausted to the extent where a person is simply unable to feel?
I've no answer for the time being. Only an incredibly jejune state of mind is left.