August 10, 2005
Work in progress
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I was buying freshly ground coffee from a local coffee shop, when this woman came up to the counter beside me and asked the waitress, "Can I please have a sugar-free fat-free vanilla latte?"
I did try not to turn around and stare too much. Wow, such things existed?
Posted by sniffles at 02:42 PM | Comments (14)A little past the witching hour, the doors in the apartment are still open to catch the chance cross-breeze, the fans are left on to keep the air circulating, and the hamsters are concentrating on keeping the world turning with rhythmic running in their wheels.
Some words are reserved for darkened hours, for secret spaces where shadows seep, places where light is banished into manageable pockets that can be flicked off at any time. Certain thoughts were never meant to see the light of day, never meant to be vocalised.
Summer has settled into a continuous pattern. During the week, I work for a dream. During the weekends, I try to fulfil promises made to friends. In between, I try to fit in promises made to myself. In the mornings, I stumble out of bed, open the door to the front balcony, put the coffee on the stove, take a quick shower, open the back door to take advantage of the fresh morning air, and close the front door when I feel the heat of the sun on the floor. Then I tend to the plants, get breakfast, and make myself presentable to the world, in any consecutive order, or concurrently.
In the evenings, the front door first, then the back door — little by little, until the force of the late afternoon sun has moved away. In these gentle, quiet times, one has room to contemplate. There is time to scheme, to plan, to seed ideas. And it would be the blessed curse on Man — the gift of thought.
Twice, in two days, two different people have asked, "Whence come your passion?" In more words, and less. Passion as a habit. Passion as a means of defying existence. Passion as an angry, calculated war raged against annihilation. Passion because I know no other way.
Some notions are reserved for the privacy of two people, walking down the street, keeping at bay the dangers of darknesses by the speed at which they walk. Others are to be kept written in notebooks, meaningful only for the moment, written in order to be forgotten.
Posted by sniffles at 12:22 AM | Comments (7)