Dreary days forge a gloomy mind...the sun doesn't shine so bright, inside my head. But all is well this time. This time.
And the rain still pours, and I cannot decide why it is I haven't peace of mind--though all in all feels quite still.
But stillness does not equal peace, as many have found before me.
Perhaps a piece of me wonders, if the sky must cry, then shouldn't I?
This indecisiveness is debilitating.
But there is something....something that won't quit gnawing..won't leave me be in this equilibrium.
Something tells me, that something is not right--
is not wrong, but--rather--not there.
I'm not content. Not that I should be, or that anybody really should be...but there is such a weight threatening to tip me over...trying to hint, to push me in a direction. But every time I squint and try to see the distance the mirage fades and the desert stretches for miles.
It's that destination I know is there, but I cannot determine how far, or whether it is the place of my dreams, or of my nightmares.
What do I do. What do I do...What do I do?

Guidance doesn't exist--in the land beyond the clouds.

I have had the strangest dreams--I have found some peace of mind:
it has stopped turning for now.
I have found a level of contentment that hasn't existed for me in a while.
I notice little things like the curve of my shoe against the floor, and the dust on my sweater--I watch the wind blow the drapes across the way, and for once it doesn't worry me about the day--but introduces me to how the cotton flies in the draft.
I dreamed last night of a place far away--a place that I belong. I dreamed of the journey to get there and the many obstacles in the way--
and how wonderful it would be to get there. Not because of the place, I realized, but because of the people who are there.
I have a sense of impending excitement...something is about to happen--something wonderful, and complex--
something that will change everything I know about myself, and everybody else.
It came upon me yesterday as I rested under a tree in the park. A loud separatist rally writhed up the hill above me; children played dodge ball in the sun. And I laid against my tree surrounded by life and beauty and diversity.
But it wasn't the moment that allowed this feeling--it was the calmness that allowed me to perceive it. Apprehension, brevity, adventure: something lingering just around the bend in this overgrown, forest trail (think Frost, The Road Not Taken).
I don't want to sleep anymore. I want to wake up and see what I've been missing--I gather this is a lot.
I am often overcome by an urge to sell all of my belongings and move to Brazil. My rationale tells me this is a bad idea, but it is this impulsiveness that intrigues me...perhaps a less drastic impulse, I should follow.
I think what I feel is the return of my cravings for adventure. Last time it brought me to Montreal, before that the French Alps, Prague, Vienna, Rotterdam...I need to loose these shackles and roam--
not in discovery, but in acquiescence. In an understanding of the dichotomy that exists within myself--
I'm like the existentialist tripper who took a wrong turn and ended up on Mulholland Drive, for a little while. Who finally found her own feet again, one shoestring at a time, and began to pull herself together--pull herself back toward the part of her that had fallen by the wayside on the slippery streets of superficiality.
There is a piece of everyone before me, left within me--it's frightening to think of all these destinies to fulfill...so many things to do, to try--I feel them all pulling at me, little urges: different ones each day.
I want to be it all, and so I have been nothing.
Today the sun is shining, though I can only see it reflected on the windows across the alley-way--I know it is there. Today I ride my broken bicycle (again) to the shop, where I hope they will fix it for me, or give me a better one. Today I am making one effort above all others.
A curious man from Trinidad taught me yoga yesterday. He spoke of committing actions without any expectations--of not wanting reactions, but simply doing things because we want to do them, or because they are nice to do for others.
What a feat! Human nature--through our societal disconnect--is to expect something in return, always.
My roomate just woke up. He has his own demons--often they pollute the air in the apartment, scrambling for attention. I can feel his unrest...I hope he finds peace.
This isn't even a stream of consciousness, because my consciousness keeps shifting--rather it is an evolution of thought...a journey through the morning, fueled by coffee and complexity of desire.
It is time to go forward in my day.
It is time to find out just where I might be going.

The dichotomy of the living: the field notes of the dead.
One whispered to another, why are we dressed in red?
A painted pretty picture; a paradox of lies--one slipped beneath another:
concentrated in the eyes.
The tale of tales, a storybook told--one villain to the next;
there is no life, or love: is lost--
there is no glory, that's the cost.

("The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings.")

I should be sleeping. Instead, I am awake wondering about things I can't control. The first of which, is you.
Stuck in a limbo-hold between love and hate:
I feel neither.
I don't know how you'll react, if you'll react. And maybe this is the problem.

Remember me? That little glimmer of something you saw some-time ago...sitting in an alcove, all pretty-like, or so you said. I was the one that got away--from everybody else, and yet you still managed to hold on, long enough to keep me ensnared. So what now?
Have you forgotten already? So soon after those empty promises that shattered on some cheap linoleum floor--not mine.
Your mouth says you remember, but that is all. And every day your whisper is a little bit quieter--though I wonder if it's me that's moving away.
I don't believe you. Not anything you say. If it is true, I marvel at it's veracity, then caste it aside. If it is false, I only wonder at how you think I couldn't know...
I remember a feeling, a nice one, from such a while ago...some time when my smile was real and yours wasn't so far off...some time when laughing was my favourite pastime--though I wonder if that too was as real as it felt.
Where has the world gone? In all its swept up glory--those rainy day promises kept in a jar while the desert took its toll.
Did anybody hear the glass break when we smashed it on the tile and ran for the coast...did anybody step on the shards when they were looking for our remains, now sodden in the dampening dark--
go home, somebody yells over the sound of the waves crashing on the beach--I am, at least in my mind, from time to time.
But you...you don't unravel like the rest. You play games with our heads--we're just pieces on the checkerboard (nobody likes chess)...and maybe you're right.
But every once in a while, it probably wouldn't destroy the odds to think that today, in this battle of where we are going in love lost or unfound--
perhaps, you are wrong.