when talk ain't cheap

a dry mouth and sore eyelids - signs of a night well spent.

i have been sleepwalking for the better part of the day and that suits me just fine. this is the semi-catatonic state the artist in me has come to crave. that warm gentle hum that is my brain's way of reminding me it's processing as we speak.

it's funny, then, that this isn't coming out quite as clearly as i would have hoped. last night there was plenty of clarity: on relationships (the race to hurt or get hurt); on writing; on sulking about the past and the refusal to accept anything less than everything for the future. there's something about spilling your beans to a good friend that is magical and almost a performance in and of itself. you start off timid but gain confidence after that first round of applause. and once the thoughts start gushing, you can almost step right out of your body and listen to yourself exorcising all those little demons that have been quietly gnawing at your stomach without your consent all this time. and whether it's about Amy or Jules or Kamikaze Baby or a 'future' Rob that seems currently out of reach, you become so attached to the cleansing process that you just want to reach in and make sure you scraped out the last of them before you seal up that vault again.

because once you do all that, you can start dreaming again. and when you start dreaming, you get to scheming. and it's all a steep, uphill sleepwalk from there on in.

quick check. yup, still humming...