Running is important. Breathing fast is important. The fan making such a lot of noise is not important. My head in a swirl is sort of important.

My promises, the ones I made to myself, they get forgotten. The ones I have inside me, that stumble out of a line of disciplined thoughts, are nagging the fuck out of me. But I know they'll get forgotten, eventually.

Fifty lashes for them.

So here we are, again. Writing and thinking and writing and the order is not really apparent.

There's the tiny matter of self-absorption being so immense it ends up absorbing your self. That is some fucking irony. The idea may seem purely figurative, but it is real. Watch as your self gets hidden by the shadow of your mirror image. Watch.

This question, it bugs: What is it that you are doing? I mean, really doing?

The other one: Where is this going?

And another one: Do you give a shit?

The answers: Go to sleep.

So that's that.

And the bubble's getting bigger, and the really tiny bit in you that's still got perspective is shivering under the size and the sheer devastation it'll cause when it bursts. But then maybe that part is the cute little drama queen and the rest of you is pragmatic, sensible and suitably indifferent.

So she's sitting and typing and she needs to figure out why the hell she suddenly needs to do this. I thought she had stopped, and no one really knew if that was a good thing or bad.

Half-afraid of resolves and literally shit-scared of declarations. Why don't you step out, potter around a bit, have a look about and then see if you're ready now? We'll discuss this further, but you gotta have the tiny bit figured out, first.

Ok, so anyway, this shit is personal.

Convenio

And then there are the convenience stores. The ones that are open twenty four hours a day. But if they never shut, how can they tell how many hours there are in their day? Isn't a day supposed to be a closed unit that sees an end? End of days. Like some lame action film.
It's a funny concept. Kind of like an afterdeath. I can't seem to pinpoint how, but it seems about right.

So getting back to the store. Which isn't really important at all. She's standing in line, the head above the clouds thing going on, and then a sudden flash. Of what? This niggling little detail that is arguably reality. I'm not even debating(or arguing), but still. So there's this sudden blindness, and you suddenly think you're seeing. I can't stop laughing at the notion of enlightenment.

Right now, while typing. But at that time, I was blinded, and stricken. Imagine her being swept over by this nausea of an odorless nature, like the consciousness of the chicken burgers trying to engulf my consciousness, or whatever it is that I tend to exist in a state of.

This is confusing, because I can't even decide whether it's a white blindness or a black darkness, or if there's any color involved at all. So you go on and breathe. You breathe and you hold it in. You're holding it in so hard that it goes away, in revulsion. Then it's all fine again. Like this sudden shooting pain in the chest which vanishes so quickly you wonder if it was ever there to begin with. You might light a smoke or try and hold on to a metaphorical railing, and there's this stupid smile. It's not really on your face, but lurks around for a while. It even enacts itself through your fingers, and the gaps between them. It's overwhelming the tiny light of a cigarette, and the smoke carries it to your lungs. They fill up and you're happy now.

You're reminded of what real is, and you're reminded that you never forgot, to begin with. These are pinpricks of shadows, not of light. You're the one with a good reason, here.

So that's how she figures it goes. That's what happens to the feelings you don't feel. They take their sweet revenge, but they're not spiteful, so they leave you in a blissful peace.

A calm full stop.