It’s not alien (at least to myself) that I’ve recently developed this habit of rising before anyone else could, and I know that’s virtually impossible, but I guess that’s why I’m being nothing but real when I say that I’ve been waking up before the soul next to mine and the soul next to his, in a tangle of souls that all wake up after I do, and I know I sounded godly saying that, it’s because I actually feel so. Awakening is definitely something else, a contest that knows no time, but I guess I’d still be getting somewhere with my eyes wide open, I’d still be better than the best sleepwalker alive. But only with flashlights and a cell-phone.
Darkness is cute. This isn’t part of a gothic leap, but definitely, darkness is a lot more reassuring than silence or white noise, and it needs no say that with ‘darkness’, I implied nothing but ‘darkness’ and not something like ‘dark, without sound’ or ‘dark, with ghosts screaming aloud’, which means one can bias darkness to favour oneself, as long as he gives it something to mate with, like music for instance. But I find that it’s not the same case with silence, even in the brightest of lights, as without people around, I’ve never felt an ounce of optimism more than what I was supposed to feel, what the silence was supposed to induce, and that’s nothing, really. And I tend to hallucinate, yeah, which doesn’t make me neurotic, it only makes me skilled enough to be able to bring the images in my mind to the outside world, but constrained so that no one but myself can savour what’s being shown, because it can’t be seen by anyone else. It’s often something very graphic, for the eye cannot distinguish substance from shit, I’ve been told it’s all in the mind, and without the mind you could end up treating shit like everything else, and everything else like shit and everything is at par and that’s like the ideal world. An ideal world where being is banned, and you can’t be something else either, because you’ve got to ‘be’ to be that and so you can’t be.
She was outside my window, the window that faces the corridor, the corridor that glowed with every single fluorescent lamp turned on. I blinked. She would’ve been gone by then if she had materialized out of nothing, or an equal amount of air, but I know that I saw her coming from around the bend, clad in her best, the best they always dress her in. Gold. Stones. Crown. Anklets. Bangles. Silks. Not overdone, for I held the brush, you know, I don’t mind ornaments unless they came in my way, and I guessed a little wouldn’t do much harm. And besides, I couldn’t imagine her without them, it’s not my fault, really. And it’s not my fault that she’s always got to be this pretty, for through the ages, through pumpkins and pussycats and every odd and end that’s played her in a film, there’s only been one that’s lasted in my mind, particularly because she was only as old as I am now and because there’s nothing that connects better than age. Not even Nokia, for that matter.
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