om du ar en vakthund

25 Jun

Title translates to “if you are a watchdog,” which seems kind of reasurring yet also somehow sad.
I have yet to do anything but listen to Dungen and read House Of Leaves, suprisingly they go together quite well, an odd pair. My feet are cold. I have a blanket on, I have a pillow I’ve been leaning on, but I cannot sleep. I need some water so I can take my ill-gotten pills. I need some home-comforts. I need a watchdog. I need, I need, to figure out what is wrong with my terrible and lovely subconcious, but that is a puzzle for another day or so.
How many hours has it been that I’ve sat staring into space and thinking of life beyond life beyond living? How many stories have I written halfassedly inside my head that will never see the light of day? How many broken cameras? Rolls of exposed film? Smashed, splintered guitar strings? Far too many, really, far far too many for it ever to be healthy.
And compound that with the crystallising compounds of blind and suffocating love: I am amazed I am not wandering about holding a sheaf of an old man’s papers, telling tales of houses never-ending, labrynths stretching off to infinite horizons.
I do need to sleep. I will have to wait for water, else risk gagging and coughing and waking tout le monde sur l’avion.
Mais… Je suis une voleure de ma cœur, et mes yeux ne voient pas. (Je croie que ce n’est pas tort.)
Yeah, my French is okay, I suppose. I usually end up wrting strange nonsense whenever I start drabbling in it. Ah well.

Took my pills. I should be floating off into a dream-reverie like usual soon, if not- I’ll come back here and write about it.
Goodnight? Going to listen to Takk…

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