I'm listening to: Explosions In The Sky - Your Hand In Mine

The late night has become a familiar friend. The barriers between this current reality and the next/Other seem like they've been diminished somewhat, and existence feels lighter than air. The song, in fact an instrumental, is the vehicle which takes me to another time in another place, on roads paved by the surreal expression of the uncanny hour. A la Offred - where shall I go?

We've lived so many lives and been so many different people. The past is a neverending avenue of regret, pain, confusion, etc., but also that of childhood's genuine happiness, which has since undergone contamination by disillusionment, cynicism and world-weariness. A figment of its former glory, the displaced shadow of what was once happiness is now the chained observer of anything pertaining to an evocation of its former being. Like a prisoner, it occasionally emerges from its cell and fetters, fleetingly, to catch a momentary glimpse of a universe damned to unceasing flux. It can never stay, and it will be sorely missed.

This constant, romantic longing for something of a bygone time as projected onto the obscure future, is perhaps the only thing that keeps one going.




I don't feel like going home now,
I wish that I could stay.