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a desk of solitude. where i sit obliquely and rant chatter of boredom. i want not to remain in quiet, remain in stillness. i want to open my mouth, feeling the slober drip from my lips, and my sweat pouring out its seams. poring out of its seams. i want my eyelids to open widely and my pupils to spin in circles. for once, i would like to have no regard for time, and pay no attention to what i am doing, and to let accomplishments and surprises find myself. i suppose i would like to stand alone in a darkened corner of the street, and reach my hands upwards, past my head, and with the invisible sketched lines of my paled hands, i would like to trace the outline of the buildings. and i would like it, moreso, i would enjoy it to be very gloomy outside, as on a day that it has just rained, and the only light i would like to see would be the streetlight, that would encapsulate the contours of my body and would glow onto me. i would be there on a darkened street corner, but the entire whole of me would light up, and i suppose someone i would not know would gaze down at me from atop a window, unexepectedly, and perhaps my illuminated body would be like gazing into another window. a window into my being...
my body being lit up for someone. i accept this as a motive for understanding or discerning reality from non-reality. i can have these visions that speak profoundly to me and command me to record, as to gather a sense of hope or optimism as to what i really am. i am only writing for that unexpected illumination of my interior self, one that outweighs, much heavier, than the exterior of I...