:: pickles are just pickles ::
i'm frightened to think that all of this is all there is._it can most certainly not be, for i am but a child._new born eyes in a world much older than i can imagine._the existence of many, to whom i relate to merely in terms of the time shared comes into focus as some sign of something greater, incomprehensible just yet._my trust in "so weit ich weiß, teilen wir dieselbe Zeit" may be nothing other than one of my many puerile delusions._i haven't been here long enough to share enough time with, well, anyone, really._and it is when i think of all the time that is to come, and the lack of certainty of my sharing it with anyone, that my stomach ties up in a knot and i think that life is a most astounding thing._there are seconds, hours and years to come; what will come of them? not knowing anything at all is part of the charm of it all, and yet terrifying._ the crossroads that have led me to imagine that i make part of a greater scheme slowly vanish and shift direction; those known become unknown and those that will forever remain absent become slowly shapes and shadows mimicking these illusions behind my eyes._will the conversations i've had with my own self ever come to be, if not exactly as pictured, at least somehow alike?_so much time spent on thinking about how to spend time, so much energy implemented in saving up energy for the best part of this 'whole', so much colour and movement that has not yet come to be... how does one get near someone else? how does one break the necessary barrier built between glares and suggestive looks? is there anyway in which i could start to leave myself to come back to something other than me?_and then i think, after having heard it a lot of times now, that people are just people, just that._and oh how hard it is to understand such a simple arrangement of words; people... not merely the plural of persons, now, is it?._and even if it were, it's still much harder to understand what a single person is in order to understand what the plural of such one thing could be._can one really think in terms of many persons known, unknown, slightly known and merely acquainted?_i sincerely don't know._it all comes out of focus after having spent the last four days trapped in this small room, staring into this monitor in hopes of some cure or answer to my isolation._are those with whom i talk through this pixelated reality really the ones i have had the chance to stare into in several occasions?_am i the same one with whom they spend their time?_is this voice the same for the one that writes and the one that reads, and speaks, and draws and sings?
i may be a little to febrile to keep writing...
coming in through my ears::Cucumber Slumber//Weather Report