space

The spider solitaire game ends, and then, silence. I am left with almost nothing at the end of it, it is more than a game, it is a means by which I can avoid lying down with my thoughts in those hours we call ' falling asleep', only mine were really hours yesternight.


"I am not ready to talk yet, Father."


No, it is not really silence, for Itunes plays on. Yet - suddenly without a mind-dumbing game I find myself displaced, like I was disorientated because someone was using my computer at the time, or I just needed to be away from the group to grouch but had no where to go-


(Funny how in art we constantly conceptualise futuristic, post-modern type of ideas, but in writing, we write of old more than anything.) I cannot help but think about the diverse kinds of spaces spent in solitude, there are so many kinds of them I have experienced before. I have written about them so many times: the beer and chocolate nights, the cognac-moments, the lounge music, the times awake in the stillness of the night...


I haven't had a beer for so long, since I was ill till now, it is so tense within me without. If I were to be conscious of it, my muscles are aching from tension of thought.


Every activity conjurable now in the space of tonight, seems futile to fill the gaps of numbness and tension. Perhaps only sloth abides, and that limits what I can do. But, I do know the answer - wounds must be dressed, dust swept, toilets cleaned, and so on.


"Call me something, call me nothing, For I am yours, and I am all mine, and I have nothing to offer, yet I have your whole world." The vagueness of this, juxtaposed against the barrage of thoughts I have in volumes of un-ironed mass. Who would be able to sleep in a pile of cloth like that, smelling of your own scent, unstraightened out, but burgeoning almost to the point of no ironing? I am not ready to iron, and I am yet also unready to sleep in all of that thought-laundry on my bed.