a performance, plucking the strings of her pipa.
And maybe I can be the seonbi in the robes of not quite blue and not quite green.
Io scrivo e leggo, ma non ho sonno. Something like that. I was going to title this along the lines of the opening of the poem below.
To feel the weight of what a twenty-four hour world is, this must be it; the threat of a headache chasing the storm clouds of work and the sunbeam lancing through the curtains that I drew apart by my own hand.
Beckoning a reckoning, begging for a second warning. warming the tips of my fingers not the Sun but cold soju in the fridge, one bottle spread over three weeks.
Headache-causing, fever-faking and in the moment I tell myself that this is about the end. Then we wake up again the next day and the world is normal again. Anyway, it is good that we don’t like it very much and don’t drink well. It’s an expensive thing, nothing like beer compared to water and not so accessible.
Over the weekend, we have learnt how to use yet more software, which is always good as a matter of knowledge. But what would I do with this Reaper software that expires in 60 days?
Two months of real time, for which I have used 3 hours. Rendering or reaping, this thing which catches a bit of my soul even if I am so reluctant to give it.
… the whole leadership thing. To be given more responsibility from the onset that increases your burden. It doesn’t matter much right now, since I’ve already done the things to set a good example and to help the others who are relying. But the letting other people rely on you should never be a thing arising out from foreign strangeness.
An unvisited responsibility laid at my feet without a way to decline without having one of those floating marks above your head. I would like a bubble that floats above my head, something like ‘I am a precarious balancing act’ so that people would kindly avoid destabilising the circus set.
Or the target makes you an easier prey.
A predprey program.
And I am the carrion then the murloc.
The grasscutters outside are cutting down swathes of grass, the noise like the sound of extinguishing peace will drive me to desperation in just a little while when I want to have some sleep.
It is raining now, the perfect time to sleep.
Why are the grasscutters cutting the dewy grass?
The sound like the sound of drills, boring holes out of teeth, the keen of metal against dentin and through enamel, the shiver and promise of a headache when it touches a nerve somewhere and you clench your teeth.
I would know that feeling well, amongst the six fillings most recent.
This morning I did not have sleep, let alone time to watch the bright spark of my weekend, nor finish the sixty millitres of blueberry soju I left for enjoyment.
If I cannot enjoy it, there’s no point having it. Delaying the gratification.
Intention is distinct from desire and motive.
You can intend something even if you do not desire it.
58 injuries and 22 scars, rashness requires knowledge,
negligence does not.
because it is easier, indict them under a lower charge rather than on that which measures culpability.
The ephemeral concept like the length of a person’s foot, a judge’s conscience.
The twenty-four hourness of my days
marks the passage of time in night and day.
The light and dark are all messed up now,
it is bright out but pitch black inside
me and this universe that rotates slightly off the axis.
I feel off kilter as unusual,
so they are not grasscutters but soulcutters,
holding those things, those implements that pummel the earth.