rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Dry Days

Another night. I'm looking at the plasterboard. It has fine strands of cobweb on it, barely visible against the white paint. Only where the light strikes them at an angle can they be seen, by their shadows. I don't much like plasterboard, even though it is a practical material which is highly resistant to cracking. Before I moved here, I lived in a house with genuine plaster on the walls. Over the years, it had developed cracks, and I enjoyed tracing them with my eye, imagining them to be trails across a landscape, or the beginnings of openings to other worlds. The plasterboard in this house remains the same year after year. The walls gradually grow dingy, but otherwise, the place looks much the same as it did when I arrived. It leaves me feeling detached from time somehow. Maybe that's why I like to leave the cobwebs. Ephemeral, they remind me of the passage of time, so that I am not entirely lured into the suburban illusion of changelessness. Either that, or I'm too lazy to clean them from the walls.

I've been too much inside my own head lately. I retreat there when reality displeases me, but I have never found the inside of my head to be entirely congenial. When there, I soon grow impatient for the world to settle back into a state in which I can feel comfortable. Currently, my detachment is aggravating my anxiety as I wander aimless amid the abstractions my brain endlessly produces. In short, I am sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought. I don't like being like Hamlet. I don't much like Hamlet. Hamlet was a bit of an ass. I find myself much easier to live with when I am out smelling the grass and feeling the bark of trees and listening to the wind in the pine needles. I want to stand in the rain until I am soaked, and then go in and drink hot tea flavored with clove and cinnamon. I want fall's winds to blow away the dust which has settled over my consciousness. But the air is still, and I am drawn back to the world of thought, leaving my unstimulated senses bereft, as useless as a nun's dugs.
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