Waiting Rooms
Now is the space between a little too late and a little too early. The silence of the red campus is punctuated by the occassional happy drunkard. I sit in my room, intimidated by the space between all that I want to say and the wordlessness of a blank screen. Still, some consolation now that slow words are single filing in, filling the space in.
The early morning headache plagues me, I still feel the alcohol from three nights ago lining the sides of my stomach. I recall that drunk night- blurred, sad/happy, the cold 5am chill on my bare arms, the escape and the chase, giving in. I remember sitting with my near empty glass on the balcony, feet swinging over the parapet. I remember peering at the final dregs in my glass- I could almost see the knots from the past month in my drink, polluting it.
They aren't just polluting my drink though; the knots are all around me now. The debris of a worn out love. The remnant questions that linger after an abrupt end. They are in my room, they are strewn across the campus, they hang on to the lyrics of our songs, they even pollute my dreams now. And that final breach, the final decaying crusts of old feelings littering my dreams, I will not stand.
My dreams are my own creations- incomprehensible and unbound. The bridges between the end of the day and the beginning of another, the consolations for the absence of colour and fantasy, the answers to the pointlessness of everyday reason and rule. And for such wasted feelings to invade that space, the insult of it is both sharp and unexpected. My dreams are my own creations- I apparently don't take to their being abused at the hands of junked emotions very well. And its a good feeling, this sharp insult, I was beginning to wonder if I'd stopped standing up for me.
My dreams are my waiting room before the next day: the same way that the campus is the waiting room before I am admitted to the real world. My dreams are the fancy, the flirting with reality before reality itself: just like this campus- a strange version of reality before reality. My dreams are like rejuvination, a clinical break from almost all things certain and plausible: this campus is similar- it too is almost antiseptic at times, free from all the hurt beyond.
And now both- dreams and campus- are littered with wasted emotions. It is a sharp and unexpected insult. My waiting rooms polluted by the debris of a worn out love.
But then again, they are waiting rooms. I need only wait. Wait before the debris are cleared, the junk removed, the crusts swept away. And of that I am more than certain- I need only wait a short while before all things return to their rightful nature. All things; me included.
The early morning headache plagues me, I still feel the alcohol from three nights ago lining the sides of my stomach. I recall that drunk night- blurred, sad/happy, the cold 5am chill on my bare arms, the escape and the chase, giving in. I remember sitting with my near empty glass on the balcony, feet swinging over the parapet. I remember peering at the final dregs in my glass- I could almost see the knots from the past month in my drink, polluting it.
They aren't just polluting my drink though; the knots are all around me now. The debris of a worn out love. The remnant questions that linger after an abrupt end. They are in my room, they are strewn across the campus, they hang on to the lyrics of our songs, they even pollute my dreams now. And that final breach, the final decaying crusts of old feelings littering my dreams, I will not stand.
My dreams are my own creations- incomprehensible and unbound. The bridges between the end of the day and the beginning of another, the consolations for the absence of colour and fantasy, the answers to the pointlessness of everyday reason and rule. And for such wasted feelings to invade that space, the insult of it is both sharp and unexpected. My dreams are my own creations- I apparently don't take to their being abused at the hands of junked emotions very well. And its a good feeling, this sharp insult, I was beginning to wonder if I'd stopped standing up for me.
My dreams are my waiting room before the next day: the same way that the campus is the waiting room before I am admitted to the real world. My dreams are the fancy, the flirting with reality before reality itself: just like this campus- a strange version of reality before reality. My dreams are like rejuvination, a clinical break from almost all things certain and plausible: this campus is similar- it too is almost antiseptic at times, free from all the hurt beyond.
And now both- dreams and campus- are littered with wasted emotions. It is a sharp and unexpected insult. My waiting rooms polluted by the debris of a worn out love.
But then again, they are waiting rooms. I need only wait. Wait before the debris are cleared, the junk removed, the crusts swept away. And of that I am more than certain- I need only wait a short while before all things return to their rightful nature. All things; me included.
This entry was posted
on 8.12.06 at 4:07 AM.
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nice post.. keep writing...Everthing takes its course.. just stay put :)
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