I'm dying without my Beara.
Listening to Bach's Bradenburg concerto is now aiding me in
melancholy, ironic for a tune that normally elevates my conscience.
My manic energy has no bounds. I
have begun many tasks, only some of which
have purpose. Writing a language
comprised entirely of numbers, starting a new
business, and beginning work on a
vinette are just a few of the tasks that have
been preoccupying me. I will
admit they are only diversions to delay the pain of
returning to my bed to sleep
Today I babysit my godchild Alex
for a couple hours. Perhaps I can find delight
and joy in those couple hours
without thought of the fact my love is not here.
Losing my conscience in a child,
entertaining her, it should provide reward
enough; I will not accept monetary payment for this.
Perhaps if a pack of cigarettes is offered I may
Lonliness has never felt so profound, so personified, so real, as it has now,
encompassing what remained of my
sanity in an attempt to make a living farce of
the distance that lies between us
for "la media bastante," if you allow me to
diverge from english for a moment.
I will lay back, listen to this
harpsichord of Bach's injecting engineered melodies
into my conscience, and forget--for a moment--that I am even human.