Here in my head...

I was starring at my black ceiling…enjoying the company of silence and the soft wind blows coming from the half opened window… I am digesting slowly the moment I am waiting for…”the night fall”, the time when silence is comforting and not intimidating…the time when darkness is my friend… not a death threat This is the time to weave a clever story…collect positive thoughts…embrace a happy memory…or indulge myself in a red escapade

My favorite part of the day has come…I have been yearning to cover myself in darkness so I can convey vividly in my other persona what I am trying to express … things I am quite anxious to talk over with my coffee cup in the morning so I just preferred to whisper it in my pen …something like a friend opening up to a friend… or a sinner discreetly confessing the intriguing facts to the devil’s advocate…. And gaining temporary comfort after…

I have observed that writing is a frustrated passion that obviously I did not succeed… it’s been numerous times I have attempted to write a somewhat diary-autobiography but whenever I feel like starting…the “emotion” or the “feeling” is leaving me…reasons that will just lately push me to abandon the idea …that what I am planning is just a another crap…and so the comfort and freedom to fantasies over random ideas/stories I wanted to write or reveal will just play along over my head during these hours…the time between “ I am about to sleep…but actually doesn’t want to fall asleep yet”. There are lots of ridiculous thoughts that are hibernating inside my head that I have preferred to withhold inside me than to talk about it. It’s difficult actually; but it’s harder to talk when nobody listens…or there is but only pretends to listen, and I don’t want that to happen to me.

Well in this case,you can’t blame these people…you can’t blame them why they don’t want to listen to you, it is because every individual have their own point of views …they have the right to choose which idea to affirm …which not, they have their own personal reasons over certain matters/things, and you cannot question it …why? As it depends on many things. In my case, the stronger is the intention to “write about a particular subject in a particular way,” the harder it becomes to start writing and to express myself.

This stress somewhat resembles the irritation one feels when he/she cannot describe to another person what he/she experienced so vividly and realistically in his/her dreams. All words I use to narrate my feeling of the moment continuously fail to describe what I wish to, and then, Once more, I will realized…words begin to betray my thoughts.

There are stories from the books I have read in the past that affirms the exact feelings/thoughts I am experiencing … something like finding yourself in someone else character … like a reflection of myself… but still not exactly … meeting these people on pages sometimes gives me a chill on my spine…like something is evaporating right from my body… or is it a feeling of fear and excitement molded into one mass of heavy air clogging my chest as their life unfolds in my very eyes… a certain disapproval is screaming from within as I don’t want my life story to be ended like theirs…

A longer night means a longer time for me to play like God … designing the bits of detail I wanted to insert and exclude in my paradoxical world… a time to wind back the breath taking moments I longed to experience once more and bury the shameful events I have regretted why I became a part of

Or perhaps a longer night is my temporary private escape whenever reality is biting my skin

Whenever I’m feeling hollow…

Whenever I’m feeling intoxicated in my life’s regular disaster visits…

Whenever my mind wants to fly free digging up all the possibilities out in the air…