Some Dusk

   It's not the act of getting my thoughts out on a white blank page that drains me of whatever pressure builds up in my brain over time. It's simply the feel of this undersized netbook keyboard under my variably calloused fingertips that keeps me where I belong. The brain melting sounds of dubstep upstairs are clogging my sinuses, but by sitting here and accepting these external influences with no filter, I slowly realize that the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach is remembering what I need to be doing. I don't think there's a word (at least in my vocabulary) for the feeling that is, quite literally, the opposite of satisfaction. There are other words like discontent, or hunger, or need, but these are all connected to other networks of emotion and this is something else entirely.

  Still, I do feel content in knowing that this will be over soon. Not like any actual event, that is, but the lack thereof. The space between. (eye of the storm?) It doesn't matter; it feels empty, and I'm just biding time in the end. Thing is, I'm holding myself to more commitments nowadays. Do normal people ever really have nothing to do? Even the internet is really not that big...at least not for me. You can only go lurking so far before you fall back into the same places you've aways been anyway. Everybody's looking for the same thing in different directions.

Something about David Foster Wallace is affecting my ability to see straight. Nasty book. I'll never finish it, but I'll keep trying.

I already feel relieved. Something wicked this way comes...the near-night outside is getting darker and more charismatic every chance I get to look out into it. I can feel a chill so strong that there's hardly any resistance from these walls and windows between us. Trees too far away from their home are quivering in the grey ghetto twilight. Eventually I'll feel the need to turn this light on; to re-establish some sort of serinity. But not right now. Right now, I want to let this moment be what it is without any custom ROMs and open source adjustments. No light switches, toggles, dials, or tweaks to improve on the imperfections. Just cold being slightly cold, wind being mostly wind, and night being an almost half-assed night. Just like me, it's waiting on it's own transformation through the passage of time. It wants to know what it will be capable of when the time is right. Night itself has seen some nights worth remembering, to say the least. But will it be able to repeat itself now? Somehow, I doubt it's completely sure of itself. But night will once again give us all it's effort, and do the best it knows how to do. And I'll just rest in the knowledge that it will be...sufficient...for whatever that's worth.

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By the way,
I found this in a journal. I have no idea what state of mind I was in whilst writing it, and I honestly couldn't tell you what some of it even means. But I liked it.