| november novelet - Puŗva ŗāva |
[Nov. 29th, 2012|01:27 am] |
Smuki uzrakstīts :
It sucks 99% of the time, but sometimes there are those moments of clarity, where a pure form of numb objectivity causes a deep serenity from out of nowhere.
Like for a month when all you've done is wake up, cook breakfast, have coffee, work or whatever you do. Fap, sleep, repeat. No one has bothered to contact you, and you don't contact anyone. You just robotically churn out your disassociated methods, coping, but barely.
Then on the last day of the month you decide to take a walk with the semi-romantic ideal of watching foliage flit to the ground, and you just end up idling in the park in front of a stream with the moon glinting off it. The odd leaf being carried away slowly until out of sight. The white noise of the winding water urges you to relax, and to just give up. You stare for a long time. You empathize with the earth. That deep groove, that wound the immovable passage of water has carved out seems a fitting metaphor. Your shoulders drop, and you let your angst envelop you. You feel every breath in your spine, accept every odium of turmoil, real or imagined, and just know you're there. And the water is flowing over. I am here, and I am being carried to the sea.
Tomorrow I wake, make coffee, eat breakfast, go to work, and then sleep.
A vot es tagad pēdējā cigarete pirms miega un gulēt. Rīt hārdkõrs. Viss ir slikti un ceru, ka jums arī :) |
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