late night gold
rating: +9+x

Buttercup, my tongue tastes like a buttercup.

The ceiling fan circles in place, swaying ever so slightly. It almost feels like it could drop if given the chance. I'm sushi in a blanket wrap, waiting for my left brain to join my right into a drowsy wonderland. I can sense the faint taste of cotton clouds and flowery perfume dancing through the air. Even then, I remain awake and still on the same old mattress.

My thoughts wander around like a waning whistling sound. At some point, I leave tunes running to help parade myself into a hole of dreams, though it soon becomes background noise. These eyes of mine remain stagnant as they count each second that passes, every time that clock ticks and ticks rhythmically in silence. Maybe it's a trance, a distraction. Maybe my head is playing tricks on me to stay active, an excuse to feel more productive in the dead of dusk. Or a fear of tomorrow, of this free time suddenly swept away like comet shards on a sunrise beach. My body melts into the sheets, but my brain persists regardless.

And yet, you're still alive the next day. I'm still alive even tomorrow, but I want to stay conscious.

What is this feeling? Perhaps it's not distress or hesitation whatsoever. Considerations to ponder: Feelings of remorse for the last leg of personal moments, anger at a lack of control, or a general disdain for time itself and how it wastes no second on any one person. A mixed bag of tastes, all bitter and sweet and numbing simultaneously. My thoughts are lined in an outward direction, bringing confusion to my front door with every step. I should be asleep by now. I'm not.

Where do dreams go to sleep when I'm awake? Those pieces of pieces, those half-baked characters, and those carts missing horses. Half of me carries on while the other takes time to wave goodbye. I want to meet them again, those unconscious experiments of creativity. Maybe I can learn a lesson from myself, one I should've known already. Implications of the mind: What do I know that I don't? Is there some hidden narrative behind a story written by another me? Can I give myself what I already have? Is there more to me I've lost to the chambers of my mind?

Do I know me at all?

These hours are a choking hazard. I can drown at any moment, to the point where consistency's a dream to behold. My pen is bleeding, crying tears of kaleidoscopes onto the paper. It burns into my retinas and leaves a permanently temporary scar. If only I can bring this everywhere I go, though beggars can't be choosers. It sounds like a turning point, a point of thought, a reason to reason these reasonings. Why bother thinking at all?

I've drawn circles all these nights, and they show no signs of cessation. We share those descriptions of struggles, insecurities, and the like every other day of the week. Why cry those same tears anyway? Our minds are a Sisyphus of processes, a constant stream of conflicts and resolutions. To question it is pointless. To go against it is but a pause. For one to accept it, that is a bliss in and of itself. Close your eyes and keep your legs moving, dear self. You can't stay awake forever.

Thus, as these thoughts become more and more abstract, I find myself drifting off into a notional world where time ceases to be.

Goodnight, see you next time.

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