Monday, September 26, 2011

White sheet

Songs of night, crickets--cheeeer-cheer, occasional owl--hooo-hooo, a dog in the distance--hofff-hofff, pen moves on a paper------. Everything calms down, what an evening, nothing happened and everything happened.
Slept two hours, to wake up to the wake of the evening. Burning with impatience, to get out, to leave the house, and do something. 
Cigarette, coffee. Coffee, cigarette. Evening closes down, on me, darkness creeps, my mind goes mad. Free fall.
What am I doing? Hiding behind my laptop, outside a coffee shop, in a strip mall, Tocco Hill shopping center!
Writing, yeah, writing. Who is this lunatic? What does he think he is doing? Everyone after his business, busyness, and this guy is writing, what the fuck?!?!
And I did not stop, my hand kept moving, and words came out, poured on white sheets, dancing to their own song. I did not cry, even, could not cry, did not feel anything, except a heaviness. Crushing, annihilating, terminating.
Coffee went cold, cigarettes burnt my throat, I felt dizzy, I kept writing.
Words, more words, what are they? Creatures of our dreams, our nightmares too. They appear out of nowhere, pour on the white sheets, from a place called my mind. Mind, another word. Words, coming out of words. Spinning head, nausea. Throw up! Throw up more words. Meaningless, wild creatures, on a white sheet.

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