January 19: Moody and awake.

Your heart is wild, wasting away on futile longings and the seascape of sweet language gone astray.

You are a shadow, limitless and bending and unbending with limbs that are mad and skulking, tall and proud. You bend and fold within the eminent presence of light. You shrink and you plead, then you are towering again.

Sometimes the stillness of nights would rouse within you the memories of the receding disinterest of words and of the paleness of her limbs, how in dim light she looked strangely lucent and how you swore she was transparent both in context and in figure. You think again of the disinterest of words, like sloshes of black ink attempting to be legible characters, half-hearted and feeble in its attempt at shapeshifting. What is age and time and experience if it slowly sedates the resisting war of the imagination to make way for the practicality of functioning at maximum capacity throughout the daily 9-5? Why must there be an umbrella from the chaos of discomfort and bad thoughts, what if it is this very wickedness that you prefer to go through before arriving at the kinder end? Remember, remember, there must be equal bad and good in the blows inflicted thunderously upon ourselves.

Sometimes you fall around your own feet and dream of the days of being in transit once more; a solitary figure in airports, bus stops, train stations, waiting for the next stop patiently on afternoons with book in bag, severely thumbed over and known through and through (just as I would prefer with you), glasses neatly available this time, no longer embarrassed by the prevalent presence of myopia. You long to be swallowed up by anonymity and space, space again, blank and free in a city that has yet to contain you.

You used to write letters painted in a temperament you no longer understand.

There is no contingency plan in life, drenched in hopes and fears, cold and summoning in nature.

There is no contingency plan for anything but you attempt to love nonetheless.

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