What is in here that
makes me feel better? The clean white ceiling, the Parisian light hanging, the
wooden floor, the ‘80s bed, the light breaking in or the artificial coldness?
Apparently, I don’t know. I have no reason to know. I don’t want to know at all.
My goddamn head is still throbbing from last night’s rendezvous. It’s a
penchant of mine actually --- you know, waking up, lying in bed, not knowing
what day or what time is it, not thinking…just not thinking. But I do think all
the time. I think about people, of algorithms, of logic, systems, economic
prospects, future and so is the past. And when you do stuff like intense thinking
as a rigid habitual activity like I am, you tend to lose any sign of propensity
towards it. You yearn of becoming a bubble --- hollow, pointless, and empty.
That is how I sometimes wish to feel, like a bubble. It
might have been a happy thing to consider. You know, just floating up there, no
direction at all but then again no. I am here in no name place that is my room,
making love with my bed. A bedroom wasn’t called such for anything if you don’t
spend time with your bed, an early morning thought So, then I think as early as
5 o’clock in the morning when I should expect myself to be waking up late with
a pillow on the floor and bedside lamp still on. A full moon shining its way
thru the window then to my curtain. Why would a moon shines at 5 am?
My
body feel soar right now and I think I have a bruise somewhere near my ribcage.
I might have been making love with my bed for too long and my physical body is
aching for some well deserved change of position but I painstakingly adjust a
bit. I stared at the 5 am moon. I might have stared at it a long time that when
I realized I am staring it was no longer there. Then where?
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