On my speakers play a very pretty and extremely improvised version of Little Wing -- that piece is absolutely beautiful. It's 2:30AM on a Friday morning as the blanket hides part of me from the cold night air. The back of my neck criss-crossed by a knitted scarf, bits of skin exposed. It's not uncomfortable per se, I lied.
It's been 4 weeks since the semester started and the ennui sets in again. Deaths, disasters, being and not being all happening at once, I feel nothing. I am probably a little bit dead inside? My brother said once that my idea of an endorphine rush is much more extreme compared to normal people. I am most likely a little bit dead inside that I need an envious amount of exhilarants before my id stops squirming from boredom. Breathe, I say. Breathe and things will move.
A state of decay, a totem of atrophy, a monument in ruin... I joke, I am not that much in disrepair to fall into that hole people seem to talk about. I am not broken. I am not crushed. I am not in some state of complete shambles. Cogito ergo sum: I think therefore I am.
The cat sleeps, nestled quietly between my feet. A staccato, his heart beats and his furry belly rises and falls from somnambulous breathing. Comfortable. If I don't follow suit, time will tick slowly revealing dawn and I would have missed out on an opportunity for a state of unimposed calm. Eyes shut, good night and until the morrow, I bid you adieu.
