The Edges of Being Alive

I've been feeling the urge to write more and more, as a way to deflect, re-order and sense out my and other's lives. I am looking for the right form for it, thus this diary entry is by no means a coherent piece, or the type of writing I am actually aiming for. For now, these are just musings to entertain myself and, potentially, you. I let it be publicly imperfect.

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As soon as the sun comes out, I have a desire to undress. I want to feel the warmth on my collar bones, on my cheeks, on my lips, my pelvis, my shins. To feel good just by being. I cannot just yet, so for now dreaming is being in my body. Brain is overrated for thinking and underrated for sensing the dreams, and it is my full intention to get lost in the latter - just like I used to when I was a teenager. Just like I make you feel every time we meet.

We have 2 dates in the same week, because death is present and surprising. It is a monster we re-enact wearing matching leather jackets.

We have 1 date last week because - why not. You sing as I leave.

We don't have a date, because - not yet. I don't mind, as I know the reason will become clear later.

I encounter you by the lift, because I decide to wait - for no reason. I am still thinking about your turquoise glasses.

None of this makes sense in the traditional form of thinking.  

I watch two balloons shaped like 22, entangled in the trees three floors above me, still smiling. To forget the darkness of the big black holes and the chaos of  meaning is so easy when you have silence and sunshine. I inch further and further from gravity every time this happens, inch by inch closer to the edge of being alive. There, we make our own sense.