Lately my mind has been narrating on my every thought.
Dictating my every move. Like a mental typewriter that endlessly work under invisible hands. As if somebody is secretly elaborating my small and currently meaningless life into a picture. Evidently proving the impact of reading my current profound book, or the stream less amount of every feminine teardrop that resulted out of watching my sister's collection of independent films. And it gave me the urge to suddenly, write. And i don't write. Not at least for the past 3 years. I normally tend to let my harmless thoughts linger in my brain as it rapidly develops into an insomniac tornado whenever i head to bed. I figured if i do, maybe it would stop the irritating sound of the typewriter; that produced flying vocabularies in my head, and slowly rekindle me back to a more safer, saner state of mind.
Write, about the complete likeliness of spending my slow pacing days, by the useless act of lying in my room, senselessly staring at the ceiling. Absorbing every single melancholy breath, lying in one place as i audience myself and my surroundings in utter drama. Imagining as though I had gone through such a spectacular and exciting imaginative scenery, as though time does not define anything, anymore. Waking up to the familiar disappointment on the truth, these random and tiring questions swim through my brain. Every logical and irrational thought of what i crucially should be doing, contradict each other, and yet i continue to concentrate on the irrelevant. Differing in a little bit more productive manner : spilling out my pointless thoughts on this laptop.
I - need - help.
Dictating my every move. Like a mental typewriter that endlessly work under invisible hands. As if somebody is secretly elaborating my small and currently meaningless life into a picture. Evidently proving the impact of reading my current profound book, or the stream less amount of every feminine teardrop that resulted out of watching my sister's collection of independent films. And it gave me the urge to suddenly, write. And i don't write. Not at least for the past 3 years. I normally tend to let my harmless thoughts linger in my brain as it rapidly develops into an insomniac tornado whenever i head to bed. I figured if i do, maybe it would stop the irritating sound of the typewriter; that produced flying vocabularies in my head, and slowly rekindle me back to a more safer, saner state of mind.
Write, about the complete likeliness of spending my slow pacing days, by the useless act of lying in my room, senselessly staring at the ceiling. Absorbing every single melancholy breath, lying in one place as i audience myself and my surroundings in utter drama. Imagining as though I had gone through such a spectacular and exciting imaginative scenery, as though time does not define anything, anymore. Waking up to the familiar disappointment on the truth, these random and tiring questions swim through my brain. Every logical and irrational thought of what i crucially should be doing, contradict each other, and yet i continue to concentrate on the irrelevant. Differing in a little bit more productive manner : spilling out my pointless thoughts on this laptop.
I - need - help.
