Impossible thoughts are nice. This guy says he's burning up the sky. Why/how would anybody even do that anyway? We found love in a hopeless place, says Rihanna. Which is weird, again. But weird is always good. And flexibility is a sign of intelligence. Like pi. Like cello. Like Iron & Wine. Like intervertebral discs.
I dreamt lots last night. Maybe it was the chocolate biscuits I OD'd on after that drunk mosquito bit me, or something else. The contents of the dreams were dispatched straight to Gholekins twice during the night cause he's my girlfriend, and also because one of them featured him and the most ignored subject of his life.
The gatekeeper at the hostel just showed me a glass bottle inside which he claimed there was a Dengue mosquito, which frankly looked more like a baby dragonfly to me since it was huge compared to the average mosquito but the guy was insistent that it was the real thing.
Here I lie in my sparsely-lit room, musing silently in my brownness, aging quietly with the world, merging shadows of my monsters with their worst enemies. My Garbhagriha. Such Great Heights by The Postal Service plays in the background. Nagging thoughts come and lie down in my path, but I skip over them already aware of the whirlpool circling the drain that they lead to. But here we sit, trapped silently in great big glass bottles, struggling for survival anyway. Fight for this love? I think not.
Katy Perry says she's thinking of you. "You're like an Indian summer, in the middle of winter." Stuck in the shadow of my own mistakes, breathes this guy. Which is saddening. Ironic. Like a left bundle branch block. But not as infuriating as not being able to move forward because you have no oars. And you can only keep blowing into your sails for so long.