Why is it that I feel my only outlet at crucial points of flagrant disagreement or tragic emotionalism is to write a missive on this journal? A missive not directed at any readership, but largely for the small comfort of enunciating my thoughts?
More morbid, scary and ridiculous, however, is the ensuing thought that perhaps my only confidant is me.
Without further ado, I give to you: Priceless Rubbish.
I am about to be fixated by the film, The Flight of the Phoenix. It won’t be all pleasant – there may be tears. Spoilers follow. More after the jump…
It’s well past late but it doesn’t seem like time to sleep. The adrenaline of jazz from tonight’s set still courses through me and my senses are still on edge. Cold water on well-warm fingers is a blissful rush and a soothing restoration, the sensory experience heightened by the sound of the rain outside. There’s been a drought going on and perhaps the actual rain is symbolic of a change in the weather.
So much achieved and so much more to learn. Accolades already received (and trivialised?) but a higher standard demanded. So much once dreamed of and now forgotten. So much remains to be seen, felt, heard, touched and dreamed.
And soon the morning comes, with all that tomorrow will add to the cherished experiences I carry over from today. Still it rains, and its consistent randomness calms. So the rush of an experience is glazed over all of life, and so the water cleanses.