I done a lot today. I had no choice but to do things. What else would I do with my time, other than lying in my low bed, and giving myself headaches by looking at the laptop screen for so long. A little like now.
Today I noticed my attention span can only last for an hour when films are on. Even films like Amelie, which I adore. As a result it's taken longer than 2 hours to watch the film. That's okay though, because I've also noticed that sleeping is a strange thing that I can't understand or explain. Sleeping, a natural occurance, but one that is so mysterious that it causes some ounce of fear. Or maybe that's the strange pictures that flash behind my eyes and tell me that an elephant isn't pleased about my exam results.
He had a point though, they were pretty shocking. In the dream I mean.
I like the sound of typing. The click - clack, click - clack, click clack. It's something quite soothing about it. The act of typing itself is quite enjoyable. I like seeing words forming quickly. I like seeing my hands get jumbeled up because they can't quite keep up with what my distractable brain is thinking about. Quick, get this down before something grabs my.. what now? Nevermind.
I noticed it's the small things that matter most to me. The finishing touches that make something perfect, imperfect or something in between. Like filling empty picture frames. What else would go there other than a photograph? nothing else is quite at home like a photograph in a photoframe. They were made for eachother. Now they're together and it takes away the element of lonlieness that the photoframe had when it just had a plain carboard background. Now it has colour, company, life and movement. It tells a story.
I noticed that things are easier when mind mapped. The heart, for example. When put down into logical terms and black and white, or blue and red since that's the only ink I had, it seems to make a lot more sense than it would if you put into consideration the engimatic nature of emotions. Not that anything was achieved by this, but it made sense. That's what's important to me in the end, that something follows some sort of logic, or has a name. Fear of the unknown they call it.
I noticed that inspiration is a funny thing, that can die as soon as it is given the chance to live. It's like a comet, so wonderous and beautiful, powerful and full of potential as it speeds across the sky - it can go anywhere - but then, it crashes and smoulders and usually you're left with a pile of nothingness in a casm. A casm of nothing but burnt bits of rock that are no use to anyone, unless a geologist. Hm. Regardless, I keep coming up with a big pile of nothing. Infact, this is the only thing I've finished and even then I'm enjoying the click - clacking so much that I might not finish this.
Can you finish something that never had a direct point or purpose in the first place? Would it ever really be finished if that's the case. Like people, you can always tell if somethings missing in a person. It's in their eyes. I never notice though, because I don't like giving eye contact.
If I can't see my eyes, I don't want to see yours. I think that's fair.