Boredom
Restless; restless as the eerie quiet that inhabits an empty house at night. The cool darkness that shrinks my world to the blinding visibility provided by pixel and LCD is all that stands between me and sleep. The long battle between my unwillingness to let time slip through my fingers and the realization that my body is weak can bring nothing more then this same...restlessness.
A day spent in thought is a day spent agitated. Its as if thinking about the world too much brings the sudden epiphanies man has long tried to forget. Distraction and vague disappointment elude to yet another day wasted. And thats what it is, isnt it? Waste; the most disgusting act of transfusion worthlessness into something so priceless. Waste; sacrilege to the farthest reaches of the romantic soul.
It boils down to time tables turning in slow revolutions of unerring irony. The night has grown too long for our hearts still reciting Carpe Diem. Because though we should like to reach out and seize success it forever escapes our reach; as a forever awaited sunrise. My eager eyes have grown weary with bothering the midnight hours with my typing. My face is wrinkled with the concentrations written across these pages.
Perhaps the sound of silent footsteps receding to their resting place is just what these fragile fingers need. For it is by doing that which rests in the back of my mind as a eventual desperation that I will finally see the light.
A day spent in thought is a day spent agitated. Its as if thinking about the world too much brings the sudden epiphanies man has long tried to forget. Distraction and vague disappointment elude to yet another day wasted. And thats what it is, isnt it? Waste; the most disgusting act of transfusion worthlessness into something so priceless. Waste; sacrilege to the farthest reaches of the romantic soul.
It boils down to time tables turning in slow revolutions of unerring irony. The night has grown too long for our hearts still reciting Carpe Diem. Because though we should like to reach out and seize success it forever escapes our reach; as a forever awaited sunrise. My eager eyes have grown weary with bothering the midnight hours with my typing. My face is wrinkled with the concentrations written across these pages.
Perhaps the sound of silent footsteps receding to their resting place is just what these fragile fingers need. For it is by doing that which rests in the back of my mind as a eventual desperation that I will finally see the light.
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