I am, much to my surprise, am living in a peculiar relief of a bizarro world version of a real conflict. Things, to my limited knowledge of understanding, seemed back to normal, if normal even exits that is. Yet here I am, in the middle of no-man's-land yet again. A rural interlude away from nowhere, proving life ever more unpredictable. All over, the background of flickering drone of monitor sets and soft hums of heavy machinery fills the air . Life goes on, but as always, there's a blue lit reminder that somewhere across, all is not well.
Its 3 am, and about 12 degrees. Im poaching myself in my own sweat, barely comprehending of the neon signs around or what they mean. The foreign tongue, the lingoes unpredictable pattern, a language i understand not at all. The sense of time, as much predicted, seems circular rather than linear.
There's something unsettling about staring at this beautiful wall of black cold winter night. Its ageless unearthly darkness radiates back silently. The endless horizon, the arid landscape or some mystical transference of energy that causes people to resonate at a different level. Endlessly cycling to destruction and rebirth. Just as these walls waited for the rest, it waited for me. Because in essence, i knew that is just an empty page, waiting to be written.
Suave amigo, suave.
quite the poet in all things ordinary, but isn't that what makes things not quite what they seem. The rarity of indulgent, compulsive interest in something as submissive as a pebble. Submissive, yet not quite.
ReplyDeleteinterest in all things non-routine, yes. but the circularity of time is nothing to be submissive about. rarity, as limited as it is, might soon be forgotten, pass by unnoticed.
ReplyDeletebut perhaps,
turning the ordinary into rarity are what blank pages is all about.
uh oh.. write a novel someday mbn
ReplyDeleteperhaps it would be the most confusing, in-understandable piece of literature ever :P
ReplyDelete