Someday’s gone

Do you remember when Mr. Keating said that the way you walk defines you as a person? Lately, each step I take feels like a fall inside a dream – like a hypnic jerk. You twitch like you’re falling or slipping. Then I check if my eyes are open; I check if I’m walking on solid ground – yes. Yes, I am.

But I can’t help believing that the ground may not be solid enough. Or maybe I need two anchors attached to each foot to make sure I’m not static in the air. Or maybe fuck my brains out. I suck at doing it myself…I feel absolutely nothing, which worries me, and you’re supposed to touch yourself best.

Is this the result of over-existing in reality? And do stability and sanity only occur in one’s imagination? Am I in a state of hypnagogia that ongoingly distorts my perception of what’s real and what’s a dream?

The best example was the other day:

I blame a friend for my return to London. When I was on the plane on August 7th, she messaged me, saying I’d be back sooner than I thought. And two weeks later, I did come back, chased by all phantoms of the past to which my response was nothing but detachment. In short, I didn’t want to be there. Three times bye-bye, goodbye, bye-bye.

I’m convinced there won’t be a someday. I will have my options: one may be tiptoeing in limbo or balancing on the edge of my own creative and sexual imagination. I’ve been dozing off at the most inappropriate places – it makes me think of Mike in My Own Private Idaho or Trevor in The Machinist. Do unfinished businesses steal so much sleep and energy?

Now it’s time to view things from a different angle; I’m sure I will develop many valuable perspectives that will help me distinguish love from lust or my left from my right.

Things are going too fast lately, so I think it’ll be good being seven hours behind after all.

Someday’s gone; I do not intend to give it another try.

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