The question.

The bugs come after mid-night, when I inquire my brain’s potentiality for sleep. The more the knocking though, the echo pronounces that no one’s home, yet the feel of the anxiety has beckoned forth the hidden tentacles, and they come crawling out, as if being awakened. Hesitatingly they weight in on the fringes of thin lines of thoughts as if to protrude into the quietness of the void and being born right then and there for the first time. Or they are to be expected, to languidly arrive at their destination and all at once, make a single strike. I can write about them.

My cello has been feeling me, I can not hide my fatigue and absent-mindedness from the strings nor the bow. My fingers’ touches zoom in-and-out of my sensory’s palate which I try to grasp and hold on to but they just slip away. Where do I mind wonder? I don’t know. I can’t recall. And that scares me. I want to be able to be present and tag along, especially when a balance is involved.

I’ve been thinking too much. Writing things down before going to bed because they seem to just shaking loose the day’s confines, but they are not fully formed. They seem to me drunk, over-worked dancers sway a little, to the night, toasting to the coming calm. Or maybe they are newly awakened, preparing for their own journeys. I wish I can go with them. I wish I can remember afterwards.

Been trying to find relief from a question asked: “do you wish you do not exist?” What kinda question is that? Upon closer inspection, it’s probably the right question if there’s that. I should be sad, but there’s no reason to be sad once I truly contemplate the question and my answer to it. So I tried to be happy for one day, and That did make me sad. It was exhausting and cheapening somehow. All my happiness (I find I do have some) has been drained from trying to be happy. So I decide that some questions are quite the waste of energy. Luckily I have energy to waste.

Ah, the poem comes on which is… not that good, bed-side pieces…

Midnight channeling,
putting a few things to bed.
“Would you rather not exist?”
The answer hang like a thread.

Haven’t I been here before?
How should I say it again?
In the distance a tree falls
not for this ink and pen.

But you asked the question
with that challenging undertone.
Can I tell you something,
a truth you have not known.

We all walk a very thin line
better not to look down.
I’ve been at a place
there’s no skeleton to be found.

This thing that carries us
turns selves into strangers,
and homes into
frat-houses with mortgages.

So put on them stupid smile,
drown in happiness for Lolz.
It’s not cheating if you lose
just don’t forget your blues.

But it’s not enough, damn it!
Can’t look away from my own eyes.
That someone you have to live with
who’s still searching for paradise.

Good night.

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