I don't even know... Some things, I really don't understand... I couldn't even tell you what's confusing me so right now. Some intersection of Time and Change and Personality and Oblivion...

On summer.

I love the nights when the inside and the outside feel the same. Tonight, the outside could be nothing more than an extension of the inside; rather than different worlds, the outside and inside are only different rooms. Stars and recess lights are the same things, after all, and I could touch the indigo ceiling if I wanted to. The walls are still there, I am safe, no matter how infinite this house's borders may be...

How fair is vanity... (or, I should really be doing other things)

My head is swimming with rhetorical questions... I'd write some down, but they're in flashes and bits of sound rather than words. I can make out two: "I wonder..."

 

Well.. this one is actually mine. 

Deja vu (a transcription)

It's moments like this I remember how stuck I am. I sit on the porch swing, fabric weathered and grey, and wait for the breeze. My grandfather cracks open the breeze door, a scratched plastic bowl full of the same snack he offered me last time in his hand.

"Try this," he says, "you'll like it."

I rarely do.

But this is not the same moment as the other four hundred, the swing is on the other side of the patio and the bowl is green, not red. And I am not the same as the other four hundred times. This is what lets me know that I am not as stuck as I fear, I am never the same.

I always react the same way. I might as well be.

So many other writers (am I that really?) have spoken of those little comforts, of being home in all those places where things are always the same no matter who they've become.

Those other writers aren't me.

They don't have my mind.

So this time I've found a pen, and a bit of paper, and I'm writing myself unstuck. I'm writing myself out of time and away from the creaking of the porch swing. This is not a loop, I have changed. This is not a loop, though I keep coming back.

This is a new story, despite all those characters who act the same.

This one will be a fairy-tale, because I will write it as such.

I wonder what keeps me here when I lack reasons to be.

unending
all ending

in cycles is there any meaning?

pointless to continue
pointless to stop

perhaps i could go on
(but still)
pointless to go on
pointless to not

a smile or a good story are enough to mean something, they say
this is still perfect blankness
no pleasure and no memory
pure compulsion

insanity: try again, maybe you're wrong

how many times will this keep repeating?

sometimes the greyness just comes
(it doesn't call ahead)
it might be good and it might be bad, though grey is the opposite of both
and it devours

but everything is still here
it's just a new filter
greyscale

it looks like the outside but i know it's me because everyone else is still deluded

and now

something is off
something is very off
it's been crooked since the morning
and i know it's me because no one else feels (?) it

how do you know what's true when you believe one thing by day and another by night?

pointless to let the words out
pointless to keep them in

after all, i don't speak of what you might think

they're never enough to say it
(contrived by nature)
(i no longer write for me)
so i just keep adding more
(please let me be found someday)

but it's late
there is nothing left to do
and the blades of the fan creak out a persistent heartbeat