I have found that whereas I seek comfort from the bleak loneliness of the night, I instead desire solitude in the dawn. As I write this, it is 4:38am, and the house is silent - aside from the heavy breathing of those in the neighbouring room. The sky is shedding its dark enrapture and brightening to a pale but luminescent blue, and there is a soft falling of rain giving the air a damp, replenished smell.
The birds have begun to sing; I have perched myself on the doorstep of the drive to listen, and there is a chilling breeze that numbs my bones but awakens my mind.
I thought of much last night - too much that sleep had once again been rendered impossible. I’m beginning to think I am driving myself mad. But I won’t go into that now.
The sky has clouded over - Sunday morning is here. Some say it’s darkest before the dawn, but I think the dawn itself withholds something sinister; an imbalance, an unnerving uncertainty of whether or not the day will come, and what tribulations or triumphs it will bring.
Nice to get out of London sometimes. Beautiful greenery in the distance.
[video]
I feel as if I could crumble beneath myself at any moment. I walk, weary, wrestling with and yet depending on my thoughts. But they’re just thoughts, momentary visions that pirouette across your mind and vanish the moment you blink. And what use do they have, when you exert all your efforts trying to control them, mould them, develop them into something constructive and confident, exhausting yourself of all strength in the process.
“There are so many fragile things, after all. People break so easily, and so do dreams and hearts.” — Neil Gaiman
(via typewrittenword)
by e.e. cummings
Took a cold shower in an attempt to relieve my headache. Started writing; headache returned. I look as weary and fragile as I feel.