The Empty Full
<< 11:17 p.m. - Wednesday, Apr. 27, 2005 >>
I am recently, or perhaps forever trying to cope with the idea that as soon as I get all my little stick words out on paper they lose their meaning. The chemicals that swoosh around inside the empty cavity of my head aren�t the same in the passing second after this one. See, this is why I have to apologize before I write anything; the stick words set like acrylic paint, hard and fast, and that is just not the way my thoughts work.

Everyday. But it isn�t everyday, it�s a lot of days. A good number of them. I am looking toward the west and it�s impending sunset and straining to remember. Always. See, no, not always. Dammit. The clouds are tinted with a metallic blue, and there is some yellowy splotch from the sinking egg sun. It tends to remind me of white ceramic mugs; finished cups of Chai tea. Although the cups aren�t warm anymore, they are cold, hard, and suddenly very solid. Suddenly inert and lifeless, and empty. Whatever. That empty bit is clich�, but true.

I don�t want to sound like every other post I have been writing. Ahh fuck. I guess I just don�t feel the pull anymore. Like whatever fishing line that was caught on the back of my shirt and pulling me in some direction is gone. So I just drift. I don�t know how to get it back.

Driving down some road towards a setting blue sky with those unlit streetlights every couple of meters. The road doesn�t appear to end, but is doesn�t appear to continue. I�m just driving. Driving.