Those sleepless nights
I can't sleep.
I stare at the wall, the wall stares back at me.
"What do you want?" The wall stares a little farther down into my soul.
I don't know. I just can't sleep. My mind is occupied by one singular thought and nothing else. I feel sucked into a whirlpool, all I can do is scramble for the last bit of air and swing my arms helplessly, producing sounds that no one will hear but myself.
It's my 9-year-old self again, walking by the seashores. The sea breeze caresses my face softly, whispering the old tales of the sea. Pipi makes his usual intimidating bark at a passing-by grandpa, we all laugh. We all know he's scared. Why wouldn't he, it's all unfamiliar, yet so familiar at the same time.
The island had quieted down, the only tourists remaining are the quieter kinds. We savor the temporary peace before the island returns to its bustling state of commercialism, watching Amoy shine with its neon lights, snaking around the alleyways, finding out that we aren't the only ones. The aged grandmas and grandpas walking the parks, the young couples with their starry eyes and happy smiles, the wise-cracking workers who finally find rest in seafood and, gratefully, booze.
And I'm back, to this sleepless night, pondering that Chopin I just played. It didn't feel quite right—my nervousness, the overly resonant chapel, and an unfamiliar pianist. It was unfulfilling, and it was imbalanced. Too much longing on one end, the impassionate yet clueless cellist; and the other end, the professional, but rather matter-of-fact pianist who was just there to do his job. Oh, that fully diminished seventh chord, it's too much to bear! You would get it, right? He, well, just saw metric beats, seemingly unable to grasp its heartwrenching yearning for a resolution that never arrived. But he did his best, he's not you, after all, and that's not his fault.
I still can't sleep, drifting in thoughts under the moon, above the river that shines sorrowfully the reflection of the galaxy. It all seems so close within grasp, yet to only realize the real distance between me and it.
I still can't sleep, but the night will have its fall, because all things end, one way or another. Though, I guess things can also be picked up again. Who knows.
Goodnight, dear.
I stare at the wall, the wall stares back at me.
"What do you want?" The wall stares a little farther down into my soul.
I don't know. I just can't sleep. My mind is occupied by one singular thought and nothing else. I feel sucked into a whirlpool, all I can do is scramble for the last bit of air and swing my arms helplessly, producing sounds that no one will hear but myself.
It's my 9-year-old self again, walking by the seashores. The sea breeze caresses my face softly, whispering the old tales of the sea. Pipi makes his usual intimidating bark at a passing-by grandpa, we all laugh. We all know he's scared. Why wouldn't he, it's all unfamiliar, yet so familiar at the same time.
The island had quieted down, the only tourists remaining are the quieter kinds. We savor the temporary peace before the island returns to its bustling state of commercialism, watching Amoy shine with its neon lights, snaking around the alleyways, finding out that we aren't the only ones. The aged grandmas and grandpas walking the parks, the young couples with their starry eyes and happy smiles, the wise-cracking workers who finally find rest in seafood and, gratefully, booze.
And I'm back, to this sleepless night, pondering that Chopin I just played. It didn't feel quite right—my nervousness, the overly resonant chapel, and an unfamiliar pianist. It was unfulfilling, and it was imbalanced. Too much longing on one end, the impassionate yet clueless cellist; and the other end, the professional, but rather matter-of-fact pianist who was just there to do his job. Oh, that fully diminished seventh chord, it's too much to bear! You would get it, right? He, well, just saw metric beats, seemingly unable to grasp its heartwrenching yearning for a resolution that never arrived. But he did his best, he's not you, after all, and that's not his fault.
I still can't sleep, drifting in thoughts under the moon, above the river that shines sorrowfully the reflection of the galaxy. It all seems so close within grasp, yet to only realize the real distance between me and it.
I still can't sleep, but the night will have its fall, because all things end, one way or another. Though, I guess things can also be picked up again. Who knows.
Goodnight, dear.
i enjoyed the anecdote, very lively
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