Insomnia

Jagged white and black flashes across my eyes, I can’t sleep, the coughing worsens. And he’s not here, but does it matter? This world I’m living in, superficial? It’s tilting on its side, diagonally shifting me. I thought I was lonely and unhappy. But Coelho says that we don’t have time to be unhappy, not for such a luxury. Live in a state of war, and love is present. The tao te ching says something like this too; you can’t know and understand one without the other. In that case, everything is a meaningless construct. How would you truly know you love, if you have never experienced loneliness and pain?

This literary tirade is not so interesting to read. As if someone will ever read these thoughts anyways. Does that scare me?

Writing to impress someone, in the far distant future about how interesting and tragic and full my life must seem. Or writing to pacify the random firing of neurons in this pulpy mess? Or writing to channel the divine; how, when I write that, it seems like such a load of crap. Because I don’t understand it. I don’t understand how I can be connected to everything, because I still feel so lonely.

Cycles beginning and cycles end. Thinking of love, finding it, then turning it into a ghost and a dream. Goodbye, I whisper, and then you are off into the world, exploring and living your life without me. I kiss you on the wind at midnight, and I hope that you receive this. And think of me, every so often, promise me you’ll try.

I cannot complain forever about how unfair the world is, and how I am not finding love when I look for it. So what, then? Forget or accept. Neither is easy.