“somehow my dreams seem like
a chipped and dirty teacup.
somebody elses’ hand makes them charming and sweet but
I just make them look ordinary and worn out.
I was skimming through old journals this afternoon. Well, I suppose you would call them journals. I write copiously in spiral bound notebooks and never date anything, and don’t have any order to how I store them. One has to infer from the context the approximate time, but even that is not much help, because I mostly write what I feel, not what has happened. So I don’t know when I wrote this, and I don’t even remember writing it.
Looking over my blog, I realize I haven’t been writing much on it. It isn’t because I have nothing to write about; I could always write reams. It’s just that it seems that so much of what has been tumbling through my head is highly personal, which means I can’t write honestly about it in a global nature, and what’s the point of dishonest writing?
I suppose there really is a time for everything, and maybe this is just not a time for many words in public spaces. Somehow I know that the time for many words will come again, but for now it is time to be satisfied with few words.
chose which dreams you wanted to dream
they’re like a shadow, uninvited
they drink the tea you don’t want to serve.