rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Wasted Time

Words persist in failing me. Sand castle paragraphs dissolve, sentences scatter like roaches fleeing light, metaphors jangle like misshapen bells. All night I scratched away at the paper and I ended up with nothing but smears of graphite dust on my hands. It were better had I merely sat quietly, listening to the crickets. Their sounds make more sense than do my thoughts.

There was something about small things slipping away unnoticed, until the accumulation of change suddenly becomes apparent, and something about missing welcome sounds, but the words never gave shape to the abstractions. At last, I tossed them aside and went out to watch the late moon rise. It has the company of clouds once again. I have the company of confused thoughts. This is one of those times when things will probably get worse before they get better.

I will now sleep, and maybe I'll dream my way to coherence. If not, I'll try drink.

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