Musings of Night

 
October 1, 2012 ~



Musings of Night


Hey guys,

        It is approximately 12:30 in the a.m., although I'm calling this a Monday night post, since we know that technically we know I'm not too cold or distanced from the time that I, earlier stated as our game. Monday postings. Tuesday postings. Well, they are very similar in their form, since I doubt that Monday and Tuesday differ that much from each other, and as well they are indeed neighbors. If days were years, there might be a greater expanse for them that we ever knew ourselves. But I should probably break off where days expand into years, because time would mean its weight then. I know that we would be living much longer, even though I am certainly no math person. Days are funny; even though one runs into the other one, you hardly know the difference. They seem to melt into each other somewhat. I think there would be a similar notion for friendly days if they were years. Years are also friends. Neighbors, I should say. One runs into the other, and were it not for New Year's we would hardly depict there was a difference . . .  everything would become one in my eyes. And I don't- even have the ability to tell you what this would mean. Like a gentle river that goes on forever, so would be our lives. There would be no breaks between them. People stop and wave, and smile, and there is no enmity if we all come together in this way, one timeless, fluid energy . . .

         It is in fact, a Monday night, but I don't have much to say other than that. I am sitting in a comfortable chair sipping tea, listening to my local Jazz station on the radio. The Speculative Edge begs me to come back to my exploding room, to our exploding room, and so I have, but something, a block of some sort or obstructed boulder, sits in my path. I am not sure why it has surfaced, yet I know that it has something to do with what exactly has caused me to blink my eyes in rapid wonderings of the colors and sights that I see before me. My eyes dart on every path in this way in a search that I cannot comprehend, which takes me from my reminiscing splendor in order to carry me back to the workday that I will be facing, tomorrow. I am thinking of tomorrow, but the room around me is exploding. What could the colors mean? Why do they tickle my thoughts in this way? Perhaps there is help to be had. Pages idly rest, from the magazine I am pleased to be assisting, and I realize that there is a new issue sitting there, not simply loose pages. Another fall issue has come out, so please check it out by the way, knock-knock and hello where are you? Here we are. In the whoosh of a room that hides my view. Exploding and slowly wafting away . . . I sit here empty. Have you any thoughts? Could you- perhaps come up with something brand spanking new to place in here? It could be anything. A toy vehicle . . . the largest most exotic robot that was ever created by that frazzled looking scientist, a woman, seductively charming in her black garb. Please let me know if you have crossed a black cat today. Selina might make an entrance . . . be creative. What would you like to see in The Room That Explodes? Why don’t we color it some more? Post your response in the comment box below.