Sunday, January 4, 2009

Rubbing my face.
Head pounding.
Another sleepless night.
All is so quiet.
My thoughts, so overwhelming. The blank book and pen in my cold bedroom await me. It's so damn cold. I'm becoming my own best friend these cold nights. The hushed voice of Billy Corgan feels comforting. 
Stream of thought.
Denial in all it's forms have become a part of my daily life. Am I just another shot down bird? Unwanted in all forms? 
No no. 
I am fine the way I am. Happy and alone. Truthfully. Love will come when it will. Patiently I will wait. Hopefully.
Distant highways call my name. Whispering softly in my ear, around my neck, giving me chills. Every day, every single day this thought, comes into my mind. The desert calls. An obsession? No, a home. I am homesick. For the place I was born. Where I roughed my heels and fingertips. Boulders became simple stones and worn friends as I battled my way up them. Defying odds. Feeling my skin on those boulders made me feel alive. Their ancient skin, my immature skin. Contact of different nature. I miss climbing. The slow motion chalk dust. Hands so tired, achy limbs becoming limp and happy. Genuine smiles, sitting under bushes looking up at the grand kings and queen boulders and cliffs exchanging small conversation, "You wanna hit that one Cal?" "Yeah let's do it." I miss you Reg. My teacher. Tying knots, spending time in July in a bloody hot canyon, dipping our hair in streams. "I have a monkey for a brother!" I yell up at him, neck cramping. The best feeling. Hands, chalked up. Best feeling.
The most beautiful hands in the world.
Trails of thought. 
Time to write. 
So so quiet.
I miss my chalky hands.
Currently listening : 
By The Smashing Pumpkins
Release date: By 1998-06-02