I’m sitting in my room, no cigarettes left to smoke, no more pages to be read. I sit and fiddle with some clay, making little seals for wax, and a small print of an eye. I’ve used up all of my clay now. nothing left to fiddle with.
I have more music, which is nice. I missed some of these familiar voices. A fidgeting peace has settled over me. I have to make things. I am a creator. I wonder what it would be like if solipsism were true and I had created this world from my fancy. I would give myself credit for all of the delightful contrasts and the sorrowful tranquility. I would delight in my imagination, watching the trees leaf, and the geese fly. What a terrible beautiful world.
I have this odd sense of peace, yet longing. I want to run and catch the light off of the blades of grass in the evening sun. I want to breathe deep the feel of tobacco smoke in my fingertips. I want to sigh. I want to sing. I want to cry. I feel the tears behind my eyes, but they don’t cry. I want to burn myself into an ash and see what it feels like to scatter on the wind… There’s a ladybug or some form of beetle on my ceiling buzzing and clicking into my lamp. A spider crouches carefully in the yellow light.
I wonder if a walk would help me. I may go for one now.