Blurs

When waking up early in the morning, when it's fall, it always feels colder than it really is. Spending an extra hour in the bed is a goal most of us strive for. To curl up in our warm bed and the blankets twirled around all the way to our ankles, safely cocooning us and holding onto the dream world for a few longer minutes.

When staying late up at night and falling asleep though, everything seems to gradually grow warm and at it's apex is when one finds herself fallen asleep on her couch with her book on her hand, once tightly, now loosely held, barely preventing it from falling on the floor. Book is sacred. Or we seep into our bed, softly as the night turns into morning and the sleeplessness slowly overtakes us.

In those times between reality and sleep, blurring between imagined and lived, fiction and truth, sincerity and lies, life seems a little simpler, sweeter and a lot less overbearing. Life blurs, thoughts blurs and when you write long enough, your sketches sometimes goes in the wrong notebook, just like this blog post, observations from the past seeps into today and your thoughts swirl around on the sky like some sort of message you weren't able to see before.

The morning appears differently from my window then it is actually outside. It's threatening, criminal and abandoned with the trashy street lamp right across my window, reminiscent of a third grade slasher movie. It looks hostile to the idea of a new day and the hope that is associated with the beginning of a new day is missing from the little perspective out of my apartment into the world.

The night, instead of being so potent, incriminating and vast, looks dwindled, dissipated and harmless. It looks no bigger than a veil, a black ruby curtain that seems poetic and partial. It looks conquerable and paled out with the dingy lighting outside of my window, slowly sleeping in through the blinds, diffracted by the window panels further and further until it's a tiny dot on my carpet that never ceases to be out of small red spots. The moon, never visible, trapped within my own excitement and prejudices without the ability to overcome them.

So, too the writing blurs. Observations end up on my blog post, while lines of dialogue, character information, plot lines end up in my observations notebook. My latest poem on my journal and a story on my poetry journal. Resilience seems further flexible than the connotation it sings off when used in plain usage. Essays in my fiction and poetic lines in my research, who would have thought? Well, any writer I would assume.