The Tree of mrcury

Expectations always make fun of me.

Buy it, use it, break it, fix it, trash it, change it, mail- upgrade it, charge it, point it, zoom it, press it, snap it, work it, quick- erase it, write it, cut it, paste it, save it, load it, check it, quick- rewrite it, plug it, play it, burn it, rip it, drag it, drop it, zip- unzip it, lock it, fill it, curl it, find it, view it, coat it, jam- unlock it, surf it, scroll it, pose it, click it, cross it, crack it, twitch- update it, name it, rate it, tune it, print it, scan it, send it, fax- rename it, touch it, bring it, pay it, watch it, turn it, leave it, stop- format it.

Today I was waiting a bus on the street of one of this city’s suburbs and there was this white and green building right in front of the bus stop. I was so bored out of my mind that I wished the building to collapse. I don’t know, maybe with explosives that would have make it implode. No, I thought it would have just cracked and fall apart. With big chunks of gray concrete smashing on the pavement.

A big solid concrete block cracking and smashing to the ground, for no particular reason other than my personal amusement.

I think I thought of an H bomb for a second, but that was far more than what I was hoping for. I was dreaming of an organic failure, more than physical destruction.

Yesterday night I wrote a full page of my diary (yes, I have a diary) after three months of nothing. Sometimes you really need to get things out, put them on a page and read them. And put them somewhere real. Blogging is fun but ephemeral.

Mood isn’t particularly exciting this week, and as I read the pages from january to febrauary I saw some kind of continuum regarding this uneasiness I’ve been suffering of lately.

But I’m still positive it’s going to pass, sooner or later.

Going back from studies room casually without music in my ears.

Going back home number two humming Friday I’m In Love.

Long walking stare at a yellow-lighted silent open window, second floor, on one side of the street.

Brief thought of the stickered insides window panes on the other side of the same street, a little higher, no light though.

Young lovers kissing under one of this city’s porches.

Concerns about the act of walking itself, right leg cloth rubbing rhythmically left leg cloth.

Dead cricket on the third step of the stairs in the entrance.

Loud slam of the noisy entrance door, I’m here.