talking of Michaelangelo.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
-
folds // 7:48 am
In some depths of a subconscious, I lay and struggled. Those folds of the inner mind of mine misbehaving in my stead. Woke with a strange taste in my mouth, puzzling, as the dream. Something too sweet turns bad, rots.
Even then, there was a stage, a potential to perform. Just behind a curtain, behind a screen, it all happened. (So, perhaps I'm merely a player, some lost meaningless subplot of some other better protagonist who has a car seat for a baby, who wants a promotion, who goes to Iceland and Morocco. Hah, so many protagonists in the world today.)
Maybe I am puzzled because I know I'm not allowed to wish for things I dream, but the wisps of it in my mind, the touch of it... I desire(d) it. So when I wake with the taste of the dream in my mouth, not wanting to come back, I get confused.
Oh, in those messy folds, blends and depths, who can blame you if lose your bearings on a wakeful, banal life you must live?
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
-
// 12:00 pm
With both feet solid on the ground, I stand.
I can breathe a little again but the air still feels murky.
I still wait.
Espero - the verb for wait in Spanish means the same as hope too.
(That eighth sin.)
Wait 'til the rest of the year hits you in the face.