midnight feast

First of all: don't you all agree that cereals is the best midnight snack ever? I haven't found anything that can beat that except for a cup of tea.

Secondly: where should I start? There was so much in my head, and I need to write it all down, quick quick, before it whithers away like roses in sand. Nothing is really important and so isn't this, don't be fooled. This is nothing. Of no importance whatsoever, probably even not for myself. But it feels good. Better than... ah wait, where to start again?
With the waiter from the French Room? How he was genuinly happy to see my sorry face in the middle of midnight-grey hollywood blvd? They were closing up and he said, oh my god, look at you, you are so pretty. That just, - bam! -, made my night because it sounded just so right. It was the right thing to say at the right time and there were no second intentions vibrating in his voice. Cockroaches hide when they hear that.
Or maybe how Brian says that he likes to hang with me because I am just 'chill'? and how Tomer says that I am always so hyper? and how Cris says that he likes me because I have a good vibe? Ha. Truth be told, each and every one of those masks they mean, are nothing but a polite form of indifference. I don't care. I don't talk to Brian much because I don't want to. I want to watch movies on his big screen TV. I am blunt and direct to Tomer (he thinks that is hyper) because I don't care too much what he thinks and I don't like to waste time. I have a relaxed vibe with Cris because I don't care. I don't care about his girlfriend, I don't care about having to push him away all the time or to tell him to fuck off. I don't. And the irony is, that they like it. And they all don't understand when I stand up and just leave. Why can't people fucking accept when you want to leave? Will they miss out? No, they won't because if I stayed I wouldn't say or do anything anyways. I would be in a bad mood. I don't understand them anymore.
Or should I start with the open mic? With all those people, those faces, those voices, - they had fun.
I am right up there with you, sweetie, nothing really touches me anymore. It's weird. i can't picture anymore how it feels like to actually dive into it and have 100% a good time. The momentary convictions that this is actually fun doesn't outweigh the indifference I feel most of the time. It's as if I was hovering above everything somehow, not in a good way, nothing can hold me I can leave at any time and I don't give a fuck really.
I look at the people and a distant memory of curiosity lies in the air like a whiff of lighter days. Archetypes shimmer through their faces like frowns that work their way through masks. Lovely I say to myself, and smile. I used to be in love.

They played Sinead O'Connor in the Yucca store and I sang along 'Nothing Compares To You'. It feels right. That's how it is. Nothing can take away this blues cuz nothing compares to you. But there are no tears no more. Only a really deep blueish-purple-ish velvet feeling of a hidden deep lake somewhere inside of me that takes care of the sadness. Up here everything is okay. I pour the flakes into the bowl, cut the banana, I even don't waste one little dirty thought on this banana which is highly unusual (well at least I did now), pour milk on my midnight feast and the blueish purple-ish feeling disappears in a matter of one eye blink.
It's just, it'd be really nice to be with you and share stuff with you.
When I was in the bathroom at the open mic thing I was surprised how good I looked in the blue-grey light that came from outside the window into the room. And every single time that happens, and when the waiter said how pretty I was, I can't help but say to myself: it's such a waste, it is, it is. That you can't behold it. That you can't see that.
Looking into the mirror I suddenly asked myself: Do I love you so much and like to be with you so much because you see me beautiful? Because I see myself in your eyes beautifully reflected? Do I love the way I am with you? Was I in love with myself around you? Did I ever really love you or anybody for that matter? Do I love the person that you saw in me more than the person you are? It's truly mind boggeling.

- Am I addicted to self-reflection? Do I actually like writing? I like climbing trees. I did so, I left for a minute the room and climbed on this tree in the parking lot. This guy in a parked car looked at me as if I was from a different planet. A cow maybe. I like writing letters. It's like this blog thing. I am a dedicated blogger and a dedicated letter writer but I don't really give a fuck about you guys either. I like to read your blogs, don't get me wrong, but I don't care about the rest of the blogger world. I am one ignorant fuck. I am hooked with you guys, you know who you are, and the rest... I just don't care anymore.
My lack of ambition hasn't got me far, that's for sure. Not music wise, not painting wise, not writing wise, nothing wise.

So you come to the point where you think, well it really seems to be true that you should do where you have most dedication. So I should be a fucking professional letter writer I guess because that's where I am most dedicated and concentrated and absorbed.

So, sweetie, isn't it a weird irony that the tangible, loving, embracing Emeralda has turned into this hermit now? into this indifferent, annoyed person? is that out of sympathy for you my love? I remember so vividly how you told me in the French Room many lifetimes ago, that you are never really here. That I am the only thing that gets through this veil and touches you. I start to understand...
they say you should go out and be with friends and what not. I do, I do, yes I do. I love it, when Miss Wonderful Amazing Amanda plays in my room her beautiful songs, that I love.
I love when my wife plays piano or blows smoke rings into the air.
I love to be out there in the night and hear the crickets play.

But I don't love concerts anymore. i wonder whether I ever truly did. Not everybody does. Not that kind of concerts at any rate. Flamenco or Faso, that's different. Or tango. I still like dancing I guess. But I just can't connect to that world anymore. I so can't. This guy was kinda cute and one hell of a good guitar player and singer. But he seemed so young. I can't give anybody a chance but probably they are really wonderful and beuatiful. All I ever think about is, how it felt to drive down Hollywood Blvd. with you in the cold winter nights. And the sound of the heater in the car. That was just fucking awesome.

Nothing really matters to me anymore and I guess I should just go to sleep but I can't help but wonder all the time what it is, that is my thing. Could it be that I am the vicitim of my fairy tales? Is mediocrity okay? Who the fuck am I? What is 'my thing'?

Clueless and indifferent