I'm confused. I don't feel quite right. But this sound relaxes me. The one coming from my fingers while they strike random keys and make me write about writing itself - the only comfort I have always/ever had. Sorry, I'm a terrible liar: I have found other ways to comfort myself. The only thing is: I eventually manage a way of losing them, or they suddenly abandon me. It's a ticking clock, a matter of time. They will leave. I will remain. In deep silence, staring at the ceiling, trying to search my mind for some good explanation. Was it my absense? Was it my presence? Was it the fact that interest expires? And I mean for both of us, beholder and object. Isn't the Sistine Chappel fading its colors after so many years of dazzled and sparkling eyes sucking its soul out? Or do our eyes just settle down after a while of the same beauty over and over again? Is there such a thing as this everlasting fresh beauty? The one you can wake up every morning, drink til you get drunk of it, rape and abuse it in order to feel alive.. Then do the exact same thing the next day without feeling an inch of difference?
I count seven question marks so far. I guess that's more than enough for a paragraph.
And what makes me want to go to bed and have my mindblowing creepy dreams is the fact that I know I won't answer these interrogations soon enough.
Good night.
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