Fragments of days beautiful
The song in my head is the same one that I woke up with this morning, yesterday morning, and the morning before that. Why are all the mornings grey? The blandness lodges itself in my head and fogs my mind.
I am running out of notebook. I dislike running out of notebooks. After a time, the words you write and the hurried sketches of whatever caught your attention at the time take a life and definition of their own, and all these you have to eventually shelve away to allow room for other words, other thoughts, other silly idle doodles.
My current notebook contains my words throughout my month of February: a single poem written out a dozen times (each slightly differently), sketches of my days in Montreal, Paris, Kuching and everywhere in between, a poem that invaded my sleep at 5:30 am in Normandy, addresses, phone numbers, letters, and things that I ought to write about some day.
I'm not ready to shelve these thoughts just yet, but notebooks running out of pages to fill is a sure sign that time is passing, and that days are moving along.
Posted by sniffles at March 04, 2002 10:39 PM