Date: 11.12.2008
Time: 7:50 p.m.
It is the season of deaths, the season in which a nip in the air only appears to be there, enough to give you a blocked nose, but then disappears by afternoon to leave you perspiring in the sun. And, it is the season of death.
It seems rather strange to look around and see leaves still lodged firmly on branches and remember those who have passed away. Knowing these people for as short a time as I did, yet feeling oddly affected is even weirder. The insomnia is back, although I’m not sure it is just that. Perhaps it is a seasonal thing… like death is, along with periods when you feel even more aloof than usual and thoroughly disinclined to talk.
What is it about nights that they are gloomy and alluring at the same time? I suppose it is the morbidity within me which is attracted to the ague. Just as the time when I watched fascinated while the chicken was casually beheaded while its wings and legs were still flapping, and how it got skinned and cut even more casually by the butcher, but after which I’ve decided to go off chicken, possibly permanently. I realised today how much it limits my choices in food, especially when eating out as part of a group, but well, it is one thing to be fascinated by the dissection of creatures and another to eat what you’ve dissected. Or watched being dissected. Whatever.
And then again, there are the deaths you hear about. Some don’t affect you at all, and others leave a slight numbness in your spine whenever you think of them, leaving you feeling a mixture of remorse, pity and apathy all at the same time. I wonder how people would have survived if they all had excellent memories. I should complain less about how I walk into a room and forget why I went there in the first place. It means I’m forgetting other things too. And some painful memories are best forgotten till I’ve grown enough to deal with them objectively.
The thing is an idle spirit can call up a dust storm even by sneezing too much. However, it needs something to do. And often, spending time deciding from a list of possible courses of action adds to the restlessness, for then, it is procrastination.
End: 8:04 p.m.
Time: 7:50 p.m.
It is the season of deaths, the season in which a nip in the air only appears to be there, enough to give you a blocked nose, but then disappears by afternoon to leave you perspiring in the sun. And, it is the season of death.
It seems rather strange to look around and see leaves still lodged firmly on branches and remember those who have passed away. Knowing these people for as short a time as I did, yet feeling oddly affected is even weirder. The insomnia is back, although I’m not sure it is just that. Perhaps it is a seasonal thing… like death is, along with periods when you feel even more aloof than usual and thoroughly disinclined to talk.
What is it about nights that they are gloomy and alluring at the same time? I suppose it is the morbidity within me which is attracted to the ague. Just as the time when I watched fascinated while the chicken was casually beheaded while its wings and legs were still flapping, and how it got skinned and cut even more casually by the butcher, but after which I’ve decided to go off chicken, possibly permanently. I realised today how much it limits my choices in food, especially when eating out as part of a group, but well, it is one thing to be fascinated by the dissection of creatures and another to eat what you’ve dissected. Or watched being dissected. Whatever.
And then again, there are the deaths you hear about. Some don’t affect you at all, and others leave a slight numbness in your spine whenever you think of them, leaving you feeling a mixture of remorse, pity and apathy all at the same time. I wonder how people would have survived if they all had excellent memories. I should complain less about how I walk into a room and forget why I went there in the first place. It means I’m forgetting other things too. And some painful memories are best forgotten till I’ve grown enough to deal with them objectively.
The thing is an idle spirit can call up a dust storm even by sneezing too much. However, it needs something to do. And often, spending time deciding from a list of possible courses of action adds to the restlessness, for then, it is procrastination.
End: 8:04 p.m.
1 comment:
That reminds me of streetlights on a foggy night at 2.
And the moon above and the PURPLE sky and the line in between. The line even the Fog can't cross...
:hugs:
Post a Comment