The familiar faces I passed at the bus stop eluded me until the moment of recognition hit as the bus drove off. Not an ideal specimen of a social creature at the best of times, I’m afraid the early morning Monday blues after a month of absence plays shoegaze with my memories.
As suddenly as the rains come, they vanish with absolutely no trace; or at least made a rather absolute stand that they ought not to be seen in these parts any longer, and handed the new year to the days of sun and roses.
And so I may finally take my favourite jackets out of the cupboard where they have been biding their time away from the moss and mold and many manifestations of the damp and cold, whereby one may begin to question why I feel unbearably warm in a jacket on a rainy day whilst wearing it about to no perceivable discomfort under the bright blue sky; the answer, of course, being the absolute and natural phenomenon of atmospheric humidity.
Early Sunday morning and all was quiet in the house
Save the whirling of my laptop and the clicking of my mouse
(and rainymood.com)
BAKING COOKIES : THE METAL WAY.
Damn, I’m not making cookies hardcore enough.
The pitter-patter of rain blending into the tappity-tap of the keyboard and the scratchity-scratch of the pen.
I didn’t need people telling me what I can do, because I know what I can do (and for the uninitiated, my list of abilities is a long paragraphy laundry list).
I didn’t need people telling me how awesome I was, because I already knew I was, and yet I wouldn’t believe you if you told me how awesome I am (although a brazen statement of awesome is an awesome litmus test).
All I needed was to be appreciated for who I am, for who I was, to be defined as other than my ability, for someone to want to show off the real me and not to take pride in my dazzling awesomeness (oh Carl Rogers’ theory of Conditions of Worth all over again), but in the absence of one, I continued to strive on my lonely journey for perfection.
Probably the proof of being a city kid is in my dreams. Nightmares filled with skyscrapers, staircases and bus rides haunted my childhood.
To the best of my knowledge, I have never dreamed outside a city. Neither have I had a flying or falling dream once before. But I’ve gone down endless infinite staircases, traversed towers of modern steel and mouldy concrete and taken strange bus rides along strange expressways and strange roads and lanes, running from some invisible, unknown pursuer, unknown save that it was incredible danger. Running, and hiding, in a general inconsiderate public that unknowingly bars my way. I could even tell you which distinct venues I have seen in my dreams- except that there is just this little subtle difference I can’t quite place my finger on, leaving a spooky feeling inside.
Strangely enough, I don’t believe I have ever dreamed of trains either. Or spatulas.
