Following is an entry that I made Saturday, June 27th '09 to my personal journal; the journal I have been trying to keep updating as often as I can, but fail to update.
It's been over a month since I've last written, but last night's thinking has only led me to the conclusion and somewhat realization that I [do] enjoy it. The things popping into my mind were things that normally do not. I was giving thought to all things that stirred me in a sort of non emotional perception: a sensation if there's any way to describe it, I guess that's what it would be.
I thought of moths, of those creatures of the night. How they fly towards the light of light posts and how not only are they seemingly attracted to the shining fixtures but they also reflect some of the light, looking eerily like small fireballs dancing, coming in and out of view of the front of their source.
I thought about me just being the only person being wake at that time, how it feels to be alone yet surrounded by people that don't realize that there is a world is still awake outside the walls of their dreams.
-The Persistence of Memory-
_Salvador Domingo Felipe Jacinto Dalí i Domènech_
That the ocean, well in this case, the waves of the lake still made noise when they crashed onto the beach, and the wind still ruffled the leaves on the trees, and the bats still chirped in search of midnight morsels.
There's another world at night that perhaps might not parallel that of dreams abstruseness and visible majesty, because of the unknown behaviour, but it's just as interesting and stimulating as a dream. Plus, it doesn't leave you with the rapid loss of its memory.
Crashing water has the properties, the semblance, of a noise wave ranging from white to brown. I figured last night too, in my escapade, that I am not a mind devoid of purpose, I can write, I can read, I can come up with ideas. What I am is a mind that suppresses creativity and to some extent it's own growth.
Subconsciously I suppress many things that would boost my character. Some of my personal actions have to come to an end, and I have to become again that vessel, that insatiable vessel that cannot quench its thirst and hunger for knowledge.
~
When I do write it happens that I like it and not only do I like it, but I also find a sort of peace, a sort of tranquility and sense of addiction that prevents me from stopping. I want to write my emotions, my thoughts, my feelings, my senses down on paper. I wish not to forget, but to remember, to reference and to keep in contact with myself.
Writing, to me is like a cigarette, it brings some sort of high, a personal delight, a satisfaction that is, a vice that feels quite nice.
The only thing though, that I don't like about it is that, just like smoking a cigarette, I am wasting my time while doing it. While I'm recording that which I've lived, I'm also losing that which I can further perceive. I am losing the time that I'm using to record, because I'm busy doing something else.
·٠•★*~Dexterity~*★•٠·
Last night I figured that being alone is not that bad. I figured in my early morning solitude that one gets to find out things, notice reasons for occurrences that one might just not know or figure out when one is busy with other things during the day.
When I was alone I thought of my solitude, I contemplated on only being alone, but what it meant. I means that essentially, no matter who or with what we surround ourselves essentially we are one person hidden beneath skin, beneath flesh and bone. We are invariably one person inside one body. That's why we have friends, because it feels nice not to be alone.
So that was it. The day after my late night rendezvous with myself I continued to lay on the beach, listening to the waves crash on the beach, taking in as much of the sun as I could. I ended up getting really red and a little sunburned. I love the beach, I love the sun, it is after all my astrological object.
