my life sometimes feels like a transition between light of the day's reality and the darkness of nights dreams and nightmares.
in september I am chasing and no longer waiting, I am impatient and already packing my bags. I have two suitcases arranged with various items and am as ready as ever to take off into the wild, or rather, a well known country to me. what i wont forget is my leather journal and watch, last summer I forgot my watch and had to drag around my alarm clock never knowing what time it was. I narrowly escaped missing trains and flights. but it felt delicious to disconnect where it didnt really matter what time it was at all ( except at those many crucial moments)
often i've felt like my writing is dreamy and quite frankly useless to everyone but i. i suppose poetry is such and i am more prose than reality because I am describing things that are perhaps real to me but unreal and dreamlike to all others.
i have such bad bad grammar anyhow.