I hereby declare that I officially have one day off per week. It's like a crazy little black book took hold of me with a tenacious grip and held me fastidiously in place to some how create some order in the incredibly unorganized lifestyle I lead. I'm jealous of the heady misanthropist who bleeds human hate. They have no friends to speak of, no compassion in their bones to listen to the effervescing dramatics of everything around them that I feed off as though it were the plentiful tit of a mother, but they're still happy to be by themselves. Sometimes I just want to be alone. None the less, I would die without my friends, and their continual support of me, and I'm not quite sure how I'd keep moving moving moving without her near me with me around me. It wouldn't be easy to give it all up, so I just won't. Right now my little black book says I should be waking up.
What could you do with a few extra turns of that shorter hand on the clock. What could I do could I wish could I accomplish. I could create art, talk to people, have friends for more than an hour on a monday night and that would be nice. That would be good that would be nice. I can't do anything justice with ten minutes to type a love letter or a friend letter or an acquaintence letter. I get up earlier just to write this blog just to write my thoughts just to share myself. Could I play it over over over in my head with the record that took all my thoughts and melded them. Could it spin till it melts over me and lets me know the strangley comforting euphoria of memory. Oh no no no can't succomb to memory. Keep going. Right now my little black book tells me I should be out for a run.
I don't necessarily want to leave things to allow myself a little more valence because I love the things I do. I want to dialate time and make it worth more worth much worth my time. If time could just take itself and stretch it's essence upon a table of porcelain pleased. The sound of heavy breathing and the kiss of sin won't even be near me because I simply can't find the time to allow it to press itself up against me. Can't find time time time. Right now, my little black book says I should be writing this blog. I wish I could defy go against and pledge myself in protest of this terribly structur-ous thing.
I know how you felt now. The intense fear and stress that comes from rolling out of control into a routine with each and every moment of truly being. And I'm sorry.
I know what it is to miss you so much Julianna. I can't write the words that I want to in every moment of the day to you now simply because our cell phones won't allow it. I wish wish wish I could always talk to you and always hear your voice on the other end of electricity. I'd be excentric I'd be mad I'd be foolish to think you could always be directly here at my side and in my arms but how I wish it. I miss you too much to only see you, on a garunteed basis, once a week. Once a week. that's not nearly enough to do anything is it? Right now my little black book says I should be getting ready for school.
So my clock come to your feet. Twist yourself around this crutch and let me cripple you so that you move with a limp. So that you move with such a terribly injured gait that I may have two extra three extra any extra hours in my short and unfulfilling day. I'll keep moving at the same pace to clear the path ahead of you but let me be ahead of you. Time time time just let me keep infront of your hands. Let me stay out of your reach and I'll reward you I'll give to you I'll let you be all you want for just two more hours precious time. Dialate now or forever will something rotten keep me from eluding the clutching hands of a thousand routines eager to set it. Right now my little black book says I should be in a torrent of events bleeding me into nothing but a maleable shell. Right now my little black book is burning.