killing dreams with paper airplane bombers

melancholy is a loving seductress. when she envelopes me in her arms, i feel the current of this most bittersweet journey. when she takes hold of my life, i am guided only by the knowlege of my mortality. she opens doors that always lead to the same comfortable place, my past, with a narrow narrow view of the future. she rolls me up in warmth and understanding of loss, heartache, and never-beens. she is a wiley concubine, meeting me in dark alleys and whisking me away from the loud noises of the circus to a quiet refuge of soft downey pillows and warm tea.

she is a siren, calling me always in my dreams, and when i awake i find myself shipwrecked on her shores with everything i need and nothing i want.

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wednesday, january 25th.

had the worst sleep i've had i a long time last night. waking to agony and uncomfort every hour and a half or so. not insomnia, but the physical pain of a leg wrecked. moving seemed so painful that i suffered in silent darkness rather than claw my way to the other side of the room and my vicodin.

rose this morning to find the swelling back up again. perhaps stretching the thing yesterday was not such a good idea.

i need to make a list of things. i have so much going on in my head right now that i feel the need to write them down and make them concrete. either something i am going to do, or something i am going to cross off undone, just to stop swimming in the pipedreamyness of it all.

lists.

like those poor bastards i see with the daytimer and schedules and appointments and everything i detest...

lists.

the thing about lists is that they operate out of imagination. they take the thought and shove it into a little box or between two lines. this dream, that creation... wedged somewhere between getting my teeth cleaned and an oil change for the car.

gah.

i need to relax a little. there's nothing wrong with that, i know. i don't understand my anxiety over it. i clearly understand the necessity of arrangement of thought and gaining clarity of mission in order to accomplish anything. i mean, could you imagine building a bridge with only the designer's ideas locked in his head?

i think i fear that if i get it out where it is visiable, that it will take on an appearance of impossibility, of undoableness.

...and the dream is killed in a fit of rational thought.


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"...i was not embarassed at circuses. some people are. circuses are loud, vulgar, and smell in the sun. By the time people are fourteen or fifteen, they have been divested of their loves, their ancient and intuitive tastes, one by one, until when they reach maturity there is no fun left, no zest, no gusto, no flavor. others have criticized, and they have critizied themselves, into embarassment. when the circus pulls in at five of a dark cold summer morn, and the calliope sounds, they do not rise and run, they turn in their sleep, and life passes by."

~[ray bradbury]

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