being and nothingness

i am not really in the mood to write. it's because my hands smell funny. i don't know what's wrong with the soap, but i don't like this smell. also the light; skylights frustrate me. something mock-divine about them, the filtered milky white light- apparently coming from nowhere. one expects to find a prophet standing behind them with His prophetic hand on their shoulder, and say things like my son my daughter and look calm. I suppose listening to the Brahms requiem doesn't help things much either. the wholly holy mood. (i crack me up. no, not really)

i haven't eaten. in a while.
the air must be divine- i'm living off of it.

funny thing, used to be that nights were unbearable for me- i'd look forward to mornings. then it shifted, night was fine- only i was terrified of facing morning. then it changed again, and now again. Night's unbearable.

(Brahms makes it sound so good- heaven that is) (i find myself soo much calmer when i hear this, like really it were angels that were singing to me, having climbed down from vines to hide under my couch and in the cave of my piano and between the books on the bookshelf, singing, with their bright blue eyes and curly hair, sometimes you see the air stir- it's someone's wing involuntarily flapping (it does happen), and once or twice i've found little feathers here and there when they left) hi angels. welcome. it's not much, but it's what it is. come sit, give me some advice: shall i buy a car? 1.8 or 1.6 liter engine? (i'll trade you my soul for some wings to fly away with)

where to?

for now, i should run. it's good for somethings. my heart thinks it can play up whenever it wants, start beating all fast and out of time- sometimes it's good to just put her in her place, show her when it's appropriate to work up, plus burn some energy, that way when she's expected to maintain composure she can. keeps me up all night with her quaking like that. feels like my body's stalling in the middle of 2am... it's good to show her who's boss.

also it's a little hard to write about nothing and nothingness. it looks, sounds, reads like this:








see? there's not really much to it. Also, it's fiendishly difficult to express it. Mostly, i think it's one of those things that really resists description. like most of the things i want to say today. also i don't want this to end, because if i stop doing this then i have to think about what's next, and that's not something i want to do either.

my grandparents have been on my case to video myself playing something. my fingers are still pretty rusty, and the revolutionary etude sounds a mess. Bach fares worse. Mozart is annoying. Chopin preludes bore me, and are too short. So here's what they got, a hesitant Kabalevsky prelude (g# minor) on an out-of-tune piano.

what's next?
what's next?