sprachlos

sometimes I imagine what I want. A cup of honey tea. Warm, or even steaming hot, and my beige night gown. Sitting on the couch next to the shimmering orange yellow lamp in the living room. I imagine that I would come back into my room after that cup of tea on the couch next to the lamp in the living room and would feel much better. The internet would work, I would write something, inspired and no, I wouldn't smoke. The very thought of smoke makes me frown. I don't like the taste damnit. No, unfortunately that's gone. It was a nice interlude, however, the smoking thing. It had something to it.
instead all of this, however, I just stay in bed and feel miserable. My back kills me and my thoughts.
Like, how too much light becomes unbearable when you look at it from a very dark place.
How certain things can't be grasped until they've grasped you.
How words still make me believe sometimes although I know how the undercurrents flow...
Words, trying and tricking.
Words, castles in sand, can be castles, can be sand.
Words, words.
Words.