A bit of earnest brooding

Who likes you? Who doesn't?

Sitting in front of a ten-year old computer screen never allowed the priviledge of caring owners, I scratch my head. I look aside, I try a paper, today's sudoku. It isn't for me.

The air is grey. Night is threatning, but its resting on its hinges, not now, not yet. Let the day come to a solemn end, let it brood out into the night.

There maybe a space, an infinite space between slack boredome and inexplicable fear. To be trapped within that space is a rare blank spectacle. It's a space in which nothing has the daring to rush at you and hit you. Its a phase. Let it come over you. It will go away.

At such times, there isn't much in the world that catches your caring carress for more than a few seconds. I hold my mobile. Type in some limericks in a rush of innanity. And then, a compulsion takes hold of me and I almost have to throw it away. But then, suddenly i remember that its already broken. Who wants to hurt what's already limping?

Nothing is coming. There is no shape to lock yourself onto. There is no space to define yourself. You aren't even free.

What the hell is this?

Perhaps, as I will later realize, its just the remains of the day. Of the week, the month, all running into those folds of childhood that are now trapped and hidden behind piles of other memories. Sometimes, just as it is here, this things come out, burst out. You long, for one earnest moment of your life, you long with all your heart, for the gloom to thin away so that the child in you may come rushing back in. And leap at the golden rays of the sun.