vii. erato

Just turned ten now, and Dvorak is on. ‘Romance for piano and violin, Op. 11’. It is the perfect way to transition from stark wakefulness to the lovely haze of dreams. The lilting piano, the sighing violin...

Indeed, I am grateful for technology now more than ever for autocorrect is doing all the writing for me now. Hum...what else can I type here today? It is slightly embarrassing to admit but I have somewhat run out of words. Though this is a good thing, believe me, for it means that I have been writing more often than before.

I have, in fact, accidentally grown into the habit of writing three entries a day. The first is in my book journal, where I mark remarkable quotes or points I find in whatever novel I am reading (currently—Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot, and I am making snail-pace progress because I keep stopping to make notes the size of my thesis paper) as it the first thing I reach for after I reach a semi-functioning state of consciousness.

The second entry is in my regular, personal notebook where I jot down whatever it is I feel is worth remembering. Reflections, music, artwork, and the odd epiphany when the mood strikes me. Food, too, if I had cooked or baked something that required significant effort, though that is, sadly, rare. I had peaked at making scones; now all I really do is boil an egg or toss some fried rice together. Come faster breakfast, for I am hungry once more.

And...where was I? Lastly is here. Incoherent ramblings of anything and everything. This is really more of a personal indulgence on my part. Wild imaginings; this is what happens when I willingly build physical tracks for my train of thoughts to run full speed ahead. (Choo-choo, all aboard, &tc.) Whatever I write here is but the product of a barely conscious dream state that is only deepened by the music playing. I put on Shostakovich—Waltz No. 2—because I had thought his classy grandeur and relative liveliness would wake me, but no; all I want to do now is dance with an imaginary man across a stately ballroom lit by a needlessly large crystal chandelier and the pale moonlight shining through uncovered windows.

Ah! my handsome chimera—wait for me!