Climate change has become the equivalent of who we are in reality–namely, off-balance.
I haven’t entirely wrapped my head around this, and I would never have thought I would say this, but I admire old couples, although I’m not the most tolerant person when it comes to old age. Still, there is something admirable about consistency, as in the concept of accepting things the way they are and not questioning them. A shame that there is only little that I accept, and my questioning never seems to end.
I like the end of things. This is why autumn is the most meaningful season that we have, and currently, along with climate change, we get a lot of autumns. So does this mean we’re approaching the end of things? Or just the end of you? Funny that you don’t think about these things.
Between five and six in the morning, I smell spring in the damp air and the pink blossoms. In the evening, I smell wet concrete, and I’m calm. I’ve figured that everything and everyone smells bad during the day. They’re everywhere, robbing your air and space.
The only thing you feel is a loss because deep inside, you believe that we are here to create, share, and you’ve realised you’ve done none of that today.
It’s cold, but the window will remain open throughout the night. I need to capture autumn as much as I can, as I’m still heating up, and it’s difficult to suppress it.
Keep that child’s forehead cool with a wet towel. He’s hallucinating again. He thinks you’re Cronos, his favourite Greek God who has arrived to give him an hourglass. Our days come in grains of sand through an hourglass.
Delirium is a comfortable place to be if you have no fear; you have to be awake, as fear only manifests in your dreams.
I lied; I don’t like the end of things. I only pretend I do. It’s dangerous to look forward to something. The danger is the fear of the transitory.
Each grain counts. I need to remind myself of it every day.