People knock on doors. The corridors keep empty. There are two bees that hum in your head. You feel you're older than yesterday. Your voice is deeper. And when you write there's comfort. You associate to words, but only written ones. You listen to meaningful songs by cheap bands. And then you dip your head in a fish bowl -- see things clear -- and you feel better.
You feel some remote sense of happiness. You bought it in a black plastic bag along with rum and chips. You spend hours on your own -- listening to people talk around you. You've been alone before in a crowd. But now it doesn't matter -- if it rains or someone smiles.
You've stopped looking for answers. You carry your copy of Albert Camus's The Outsider (Penguin) You've reached a conclusion. A conclusion which starts from a point of a pencil on paper. When you stretched that point, it became a line. You see definitions. Obscure and clear. But you now see two points, the line between is awkward and you let the words slip into you.
Does it seem pointless to you? That you spend several corporate hours and fill web space just to fit your words in a oblivious sea. When there are two points. A start and a finish -- which your fair eye allows -- but the in between just pointless. Everything ends. Everything must. But you're happy, and you wish to be. Because there's is no larger truth. There's no room for it. And this point it doesn't fit into the frame. The frame that you have for the painting to fit. One could go on and on. But there is an end to a start. One only hopes there are cracks. The chips in the China glass. Like dreams, water and other such things to continue. Why are 'good evenings' so full of approval and 'good nights' so dismissive.