July 10

Dear diary, 

I know not what these journal entries do to me, but I'm still writing them, right now, when it's the dead of night fallen all over, and I must be sleeping. I hear no sound of human existence, but of the ceiling fan and of rain, at my window- O' how lonely and long loved it seems, echoing in the hollows of the night. I know it's near to pathetic fallacy, where I project my emotions upon the rain, but it works, each time. What more could delusion ever do but circumscribe a part of reality more pleasant to look at than the other? It's alright, to be solaced in your imagination, when your eyes are tired of the world view, like the snow falling and falling covers up the streetlight and hazes the picture seen. Foggy car windows, and clouded moonlight offer a partly hidden, less wide panorama but yet beautiful, isn't it? And how beautifully the clouds disperse, and the mist fades bringing out a bright moon, like a dream coming true. The ends of the rainbow, how they merge into the sky- that's where my imagination lies, too close yet far from what I see. Perhaps we've got two eyes only to dream in one and see the reality in the other; or to dream twice perhaps?

I stare at the wall, and the calendar on the table beside the empty porcelain vase, and I wonder which date is today. It's July 10 if I'm not wrong, ah just ten days more than half this year. It's nostalgic. I want to dream more, I want to think more, even though it takes me nowhere, and I want some more coffee, and some more good of life, before the calendar loses one more date. I wish tomorrow begins late; it may, at least if you decide not to age too soon; we can be younger in minds than in bodies and thus live longer than we would. If I could catch one more dew drop falling, like a pearl on my palm, and if I could see one distant star that shines only sometimes, and have a single heart which befriends mine- I would cherish life more. I don't think these little things are that little. Wilderness in the soul is a beautiful vision, not everyone has learnt the songs birds sing while flying.

Well of course I want big things too, like money to travel the world, but I would always appreciate the beauty I see, when it's difficult to, like nights like these, when I'm not sure what the next sunrise brings, but it'd definitely paint the skies in some shade of hope, or the other, which is so different from what was ten years ago.

.  .  .

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