There are days where the very essence of time seems but an illusion.
Nevertheless, the time is 2:19 a.m. and I sit sullenly at my sad excuse for a desk, typing, backspacing, typing, backspacing. My vocabulary escapes me at this hour.
All I want is to fall into purple-hazed dreams and maybe not feel what it feels like to want and want so desperately that it stings.
I think back to old friends, acquaintances, lovers, enemies (if there is such a thing anymore) and I try to imagine what they think of me now.
It’s an unhealthy habit but it’s 2 in the morning and I suppose these types of pondering are warranted at this hour.
I am but a vessel of idyllic musings, doomed to the life of a hopeless romantic, in the truest sense of the term.
A young Sylvia Plath once wrote, I am a victim of introspection. I dream too much, work too little.
How I long for a life of event, for a blurred sea of faces, voices, stories, all rushing through me like crowds on the platform of a grimy subway station. Each vastly different from the next, yet united in a ubiquitous, ephemeral experience.
I long to tell their stories. To detail every scintilla of ache and longing, every facet of dreams held dearly.
Yet, my soul is turned inwards, shooing away the unknown, growth indefinitely stinted. Withdrawn. I don’t do too much talking these days.
How I wish to meet a soul who will invigorate mine. Whose story will color my own and perhaps lift me out of this bottomless spiritual well.
Perhaps, it will be a second glance in the corner of a smoky bar.
A locked gaze amidst a sea of warm bodies and Yamazaki old fashioned’s. Accompanied by the sultry tenor saxophone of Coleman Hawkins, and the sweet serenade of a young Ella Fitzgerald:
“My heart is sad and lonely. For you I sigh, for you dear, only…”
Perhaps, it will be an awkward grazing of hands and exchange of words in the aisle of a cramped bookstore.
“Oh — I’m sorry, I didn’t realize — ”
“Ha, it’s alright. I hear it’s on its way to becoming a best-seller. Here, take the good copy.”
“Oh, thank you.”
“Hm, maybe we should start a two-person book club.”
A shy chuckle and an exchange of numbers.
Perhaps, it will be the unexpected climax of a one-night-stand.
Two balmy bodies underneath the sheets. A momentary pause between hushed, breathy laughter and stories of past lovers. A moment fleeting, yet dynamic, igniting a magnetic flow of energy. Lust to love.
“Hey, um, would you maybe want to get, uh, coffee together sometime?”
And perhaps, none of these.
I don’t do too much talking these days.
There are days where the very essence of time seems but an illusion. Today is one of these days.
Nevertheless, the time is 3:10 a.m. and I am at low ebb.
I sit at my desk in introspection, haphazardly flinging myself into purple-hazed dreams. Dreams which I can’t help but feel are probably meant to stay just that — dreams.
Will I ever finish scouring the inner workings of my mind? Will I find a soul to hold on to, to pour my self into?
In reality — these answers may never arrive.
And these days, that’s okay with me.
“I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.” Sylvia Plath