Recounting the Sheep

Almost a year since the first and only post on this – seemingly - futile attempt in the traditional meaning of the word – writing.

Just how much is a year? What does it really represent, if anything?

I don’t know. I think I used to know, once. I used to have such a sound and prompt answer for anything that came to mind.

I’ve lost track of time.

Lose an hour, gain an hour. Time goes by in a swift, sweet motion of pictures and sounds and scents. One second at a time, never failing to defy purpose. Like a muted television on Disovery Channel at 3am, the extraordinary fades to oblivion, speechless, as the different tides of existance rams down a small boat which desperately – and in denial – struggles to be.

So many words remain silent. So many thoughts and dreams wither and die. The past nothing but a fractal recollection of jaded scents, faded pictures and a glossy, blooming old sequence of images which one can’t ever be sure if really took place.

“Sometimes you can see the world so clearly.

And you just know what to do.

And just when you should do it.

What you should have done.

And just when you should have done it.”

Still and all, there’s such a delicate intimacy and fondness to the otherwise despicable sequence of events that take place in such a funny angle.

In the eternal struggle, this longing and winding thing, nothing is short of sense of humor. You find friends you wouldn’t have found anywhere else. You see, each one of us leave a noticeable fingerprint on the things we create.

And yet, I still can’t think of anything useful to say.