Open book
I am tired of writing in the first person, present tense. I know this is supposed to be a journal, but I would rather be composing entries about "us" or "you". I long to be able to hit the dettachment of the third person, and even state what it is or it is not. But my universe seems to have been dramatically restricted.
These days nothing happens to me. I wake up and work out. I get ready for work. I go back home. I write.
These days everything happens to me. My moods change. Clouds of sadness darken the sky and then go by. My soul is a vessel lost in high seas, sometimes paralysed by the lack of winds, sometimes thrown around by the violence of the waves.
My days are filled with charades that my mind composes avidly. I examine attentively the shell and the content that constitute myself. I try to isolate the wholesome parts, the sore spots. What I write are not metaphors. What I write here is which way the wind blew each passing day. When the tide is low, I manage to write long sentences, expose thoughts and my little personal discoveries. When the tide is high, I just manage to scatter words in the air, float around time and space, make waves.
The things I say may make sense or not. But they are all true. My life is an open book.
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