Wednesday, July 19, 2006
It's midnight, says my desktop clock. It's bedtime, says my internal body clock. But my body clock is screwed beyond redemption, i should know better, and i'm still up trying to be some kind of an effective multitasker. But there's something truly satisfying in striking out numbered tasks in my notebook which doubles up as an organizer, though i've never been much of an organized person -- i leave that work to Moonie, who's currently busy counting the sparse chickpox vesicles on her skin. It's frustrating however, when you have to leave your tasks half-done and you're torn between wanting to strike them off your list but knowing very well that they're far from being completed.
I'm not made for all this, no.
I'm supposed to be out with my charcoal and paints, my trusty pencil and canvas as vast as the open fields in the country, paper as white as the purest of snow, untainted. I should be out there with the happy busker, painting the town yellow with his guitar strumming. And when night beckons, we'll sing with constellations as the poppies spin yellow dreams. Tomorrow will just be a distant land. Tomorrow is the nightmare that will never invade my nightly reveries. Tomorrow will be... another school day.
This is where i will sigh really really really loudly.
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fara // 00:04
It's midnight, says my desktop clock. It's bedtime, says my internal body clock. But my body clock is screwed beyond redemption, i should know better, and i'm still up trying to be some kind of an effective multitasker. But there's something truly satisfying in striking out numbered tasks in my notebook which doubles up as an organizer, though i've never been much of an organized person -- i leave that work to Moonie, who's currently busy counting the sparse chickpox vesicles on her skin. It's frustrating however, when you have to leave your tasks half-done and you're torn between wanting to strike them off your list but knowing very well that they're far from being completed.
I'm not made for all this, no.
I'm supposed to be out with my charcoal and paints, my trusty pencil and canvas as vast as the open fields in the country, paper as white as the purest of snow, untainted. I should be out there with the happy busker, painting the town yellow with his guitar strumming. And when night beckons, we'll sing with constellations as the poppies spin yellow dreams. Tomorrow will just be a distant land. Tomorrow is the nightmare that will never invade my nightly reveries. Tomorrow will be... another school day.
This is where i will sigh really really really loudly.
fara // 00:04
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♥ Fara. Forever20. Nurse. In the pursuit of kidnapping Happy.
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