for want of loud angry music.

It seems the words are too lazy to come floating around my mind tonight , having fewer hours of sleep than expected. And perhaps I just turned a shade darker again under the sun. I can only love the sun twice during the day, sunrise and sunset. The midday sun is cooking temperature already, and midafternoon is, well, the iron maiden when you miss someone.

I love the moon then and cool wondrous Rain.

the only thing right about work these days is climate control, nothing else. And when your reveries of misty mountain hikes and mud between your toes attain art heaven, the thought of HR is Dada. you know, the H in HR is sometimes amiss these days.

The beach is a hot dehydrating place to be during the day, despite the obvious presence of water. As I said, I can only love the sun twice during the day. The moon is perfect for the beach.

-o0o-

It's been so long since I have written stories. I kept putting it off, that even the material I had I had forgotten. And thinking about it, perhaps I should start again, though like all exercises, I probably should do some warm-ups first, a stretch there and a bit here. And a deadline. For starters, I guess I could muster a cheesy love story without being tempted to put in a twist or two. and sometimes I forget I am writing here. I should pay a visit to my old dependable journal, which seems neglected these years that I have been working.

-o0o-

At times I'd prefer the embrace than the long lingering kiss.

black slumbers.

just that perfect dreamless sleep, one point you're suddenly asleep and then it's 7 or 8 hours later and you're fully awake. This should be slightly reminiscent of the sleep after the final thesis defense. I'm in a daze though and all things for the past 20 hours or so are passing in a blur, focus, blur and time lapse photography. And since I can still smell Rain I should be okay for the next couple of days, more than okay probably.

Though the heat is trying to break me. I feel you, all who work the graveyard shifts. I think I am supposed to thump my chest area with one closed fist at this point. I'll be melting in the midday sun too barely two weeks away, trying to find slumber.

by the way, they do talk about penis sizes. I can finally stop my wondering about that myth concerning what girls talk about, or women for that matter. Confirmed. And one of them was going to google about it. And yep, somebody quipped "forward mo sakin ha." I am not going to question why they were doing this when I was mere two seats away. I really wouldnt call that eavesdropping now would I? Now this is why I like large pantries.

see, told you. focus, blur, focus, time lapse. lovely collage of thoughts. My parents called me scatterbrain for sometime, before I ever learned to read.

but, hey.

another thursday.

The scene outside is turning to gray, six hours before another day. The feeling of being stuck comes on again like an expected refrain, and as it lingers I wonder if I'll go home singing it, watching the clock tumble digital numbers then it's 3 am again and I have to put the current book I am reading or turn the TV off and try to sleep off the song, thinking that it's another friday.

And that song plays even if I had somehow managed to do something creative, something outside of work, or some other sort of lipputian sources of transcendence. Things just enough to make me feel somehow that this is not all a dream. I have to admire Sisyphus during these times. Though that doesn't really translate to the Myth; Sisyphus happy? really.

Now, if I can just find someone who I can converse with right now, with or without the beer, a little mindfuck for these Sisyphean times. Show of hands, anyone?

the probability of downtime.

Evening again; I can see the nightglow from where I am, masking the stars, of the collective brilliance I haven't seen for a long time and yes, I am wishing for home again. And also the ocean this time, some 30 minutes away from Naga.

I have been gone so long, there's really no probability of coming back again. I guess there's really no coming back to Ixtlan, don Genaro. This is why I need some time down time, even if it is a scheduled defragmentation.

I keep staring outside, but I can't lose myself, because after some moments I see the thick glass again me separating from the little surrealism left. Ideas, emotions, anxieties, frustrations, and a kind of hunger even is crowding me too much right now. I got to go uncork myself.
Everything's going ghostly on me, the real is sort fading at this point in time.

the ghost of downpours talks to me while I stand quietly in the fading rain.

It's still raining, but it seems to fall without purpose this time, or just cleaning up the parts that the downpour a while ago didn't happen to hit, like a lazy afterthought of cruise missiles after a nuclear strike.

inside, this is something about too much rain this time.

and clasping my wet hands together I seem to be looking at failed intromissions of a dream, fading softly in my mind like how i imagine snowflakes would be when they touch my skin. trivial regrets that can only nip and nibble softly, never drawing blood or pain but they have their moments. Stuff of legend those moments. they endear, and cling like leeches in their endearment, at this point they draw blood already and you wish the rain could perhaps fall a little more harder and a little bit more colder that visibility would be lacking and the coldness would numb you more.

and another year just up and went.

For not knowing.

And the many instances of insensitivities are just strange hues and nuances of color, hiding and appearing in my field of vision, it has been too long and I'm back in my world. A sort of eerie consolation that it's good to be here where I can smell things better, instead of just looking at them.
I guess, I'll walk around for some time and acquaint myself with the things I might have long buried or forgotten to gaze into, and also in the off chance that I might find my way to the ocean and hear infinity for some time, to close my eyes in its scent and in remembrance. Somewhere I can hear Duritz sing, music passing through this haze like an old transistor radio but becoming clearer as time passes.
I have forgotten how lovely the lights here are, changing and always familiar. It's easy to remember the late afternoon sun, dappled and revealing that face, or candlelight yellow, showing only what it can, and painting everything else in shadow, and how those eyes in that light forever burned in your memory. Then blue, blue that only early mornings can muster and give like a miser on his deathbed, the perfect color and time to be cold and be alive and how being embraced is being home.

This is knowing again.

---

And remembering when everything threatens to be a jaded yesterday, like only something from a reverie, Enid Blytonesque. This is time to revel again, in some old ways I remember, and there's always the same feeling how Case must have felt, holding that note from Molly. When everything worthwhile and a reason to smile is just "a series of warm blinks strung along a chain of winter". This is decadence, and change at every corner.

I'm so fucking tired of this.

I'm supposed to be reaching new heights of happiness, but I knew vaguely some time or the other that this would happen . Going on a nosedive again as gravity is a matter of urgency and I can feel air enclosing my face, and there's that feeling again, asphyxiation; and being too tired to breath anyway, I welcome the fall, watching contrails from my fingers trailing behind me. I look down and wonder how I have gotten this far --- hearing Smashing Pumpkins play, I wonder no longer. Just fall and wait for the blackness.

...

I just so very badly want to see the ocean today, overcast and cold; everything threatening rain.

...