. // THE INSOMNIAC'S CALENDAR. )

[sinensys]

"what drives you?" the figure remains still, inquiry unanswered. my dreamself looks to the right, thinking, then glances back at the classical guitar in the corner, hazy with the white frost of cyanoacrylate. "i don't know," i watch her answer. "but it isn't the act of finishing wood or building guitars." the guitar lies resolutely and mutely.

the figure clicks its tongue and says nothing briefly, before interrupting the silence with a mumbled "how helpful," laden with sarcasm. the dreamself still looks to the right before continuing: "i'm not a builder, but i still plan and design. i scheme and calculate possibilities, and the act of preparing is far more rewarding than any finished product. perhaps it is in this that i may find what drives me."

i watch as my dreamself stares the figure in the eyes, and though its face is visible, it is beyond recognition, continuously morphing between vague shapes, forms, and colours. though i might look away from my dreamself in a hard cut close up or wide shot, the face is not visible or identifiable. the dreamself is not me distinctly, and i do not have the ability to study their face, but somewhere in the back of my consciousness rattles the awareness that the dreamself is my own.

"well," the figure mutters, voice as vague as its face. "i suppose that is something to work with. creation without the need to see the final product. can you pass along unfinished plans though, or will the thought jab at your ribs distastefully?"

the dreamself says nothing.

[sinensys]

that noxious thing has invaded my lungs, grappled my stomach, and permeated through my skull again. i threaten it with growth again, but it clings tighter, a leeching ivy. i threaten to become someone else and it wavers, but my reflection looks on in trepidation, afraid of the implication of regression.

[sinensys]

"do androids dream of electric sheep?"

the question -- nothing more than a vague pop culture remark -- coils on itself, noxious little fingers begging for any purchase against the weathered edge of the tiles flooring. i watch as it scrambles for safety, the image blurred by the fogged up glass of the shower door, and i remain silent. that thing which scuttles across the linoleum floor has caused much suffering on my internal system, which in turn scuffs my exterior world, and so i have little reason to give it so much as a thought.

i still think about it though, and my lament remains internal: "they do if they've been instilled with a false sense of self that has carved holes in their disposition."

for years i had prided myself in maturity, intelligence, and academics. as the disconnect between truth and the world i experienced grew beyond repair, i built bridges of far-reaching connections, patchworks from all i knew in hopes of ignoring my own existence. i had maimed my ability to speak and stunted my own growth, halting myself in an ever-anxious form of hyper-conscientiousness yet inability to view my own self as a separate and sentient being; the world existed in a beautiful and complex interconnection, but the active thought of viewing myself as part of it was foreign and fatiguing -- and therefore frightening. this made the awareness of self beyond my internal consciousness unnecessary stress, and thus, optional.

funny that change is a cycle of constants viewed through new lenses.

[sinensys]

perhaps that thing which i so valiantly feared might not come true -- introversion or not, there is still the chance of genuine, well-expressioned, positive emotion both experienced and shared.

and perhaps i will make that frightening possibility come to fruition, thus stifling apathy, as well as reclusion and its maiming onslaught.

and along those lines lies the idea that, perhaps, we have been parallel in these mindsets, even if not identically. i suppose the only way to find out is through intersection of paths and contact. (i will ask fate of this).

[sinensys]

the written and spoken words have contended for ages, grappling with one another an occasionally other forms of expression for the title of 'most meaningful'. the spoken word carries the lofty sense of genuineness, the subtext of which lies in earnestness, honesty, and openness. it is argued that the voiced thought hold more validity and depth than the unvoiced, which lie in waiting, obscured by the bone and brain.

but it is the written that we come back to, revisiting old scrawls ot text. this grants us new perceptions of old content instead of the spoken word's perception of the ever-changing and constantly morphing fractal of our memories. we visit old places through new lenses -- old ghosts do not soften or brittle with time, but rather remain pliant yet malleable to new perceptions.

strange how i despite photographs and cling to formally unarchived trinkets for this, yet find myself revisiting old words written, fossils of the past. is this just nostalgia flashing its grotesque teeth, preparing for some strike of loneliness? (to do so would be to feign niceties and inadvertently distance myself again).

strange, yet grossly familiar notions.

[sinensys]

perhaps i have, again, judged too quickly -- in all my indecisive tendencies i have allowed spontaneity to snap its maw and tear down that which i once thought. in growth we gather the past and compress it into bricks of truth, but this does not necessarily destroy the past. the past can obscure truth, and truth can obscure past thoughts, feelings, and the then-relevant insights. although they do not often compete with one another, one can overshadow the other if i am not careful.

i do not boast true renewal, which would imply the return of hastily ripped pages to this page, but i do admit to myself the needless notion of retreat. from what? and what for? maybe i will see through this era with a clairvoyant hindsight, but i cannot do this now.

instead, i will continue construction of that unnamed but attentive thing which grants or denies me rest. i hope this pleases it.

(i think it does.)

[sinensys]

the contents of my skull
recede with the intrusion of
ambient malice and negligence.
and my body allows it
to move freely, evading consciousness.
where does it go?
when will i be permitted as well?

the sun disregards
my unvoiced protests despite
the winter hours' arrival.
i do not know how else to ask it
to stay down
and allow me rest.

the bird, covered in his cage,
peeps at my movements.
i hope he can forgive me
for my restlessness in the same
way i forgive his in daylight.

the sun insists its intrusion
into my unseeing eye,
ignoring the uncomfortable
wrinkle beneath it.
whose eye is more unseeing?

my sheet rustles, and
the bird peeps again -- in
reminder of my duties to
him and his cagemate.
often it is a single beep,
and the odd peep-beep in a
descending lilt.

i cannot help but wonder
if the other sleeps through it
or if he simply remains silent
as i have, one eye opening
drowsily, then shut after a quick
assessment.

[sinensys]

some day, all of this
will have been for nothing
(if only i could tell
how i feel about it)

perhaps that which i have
sought so desperately
will have become
that which consumes
what little i have taken
control of within
(it eats
away
at me)

[sinensys]

here i lie
awake, jealous
of my own dreamself:
unseen, yet distinctly familiar.
her predicament is of
comfort, of contact.
she lies there,
asleep, confident
in her own self:
seen, and distinctly familiar.

(soft coils constrict,
i readjust my snakeskin scarf
yet remain unshed)

[sinensys]

a sanctioned corridor,
the unwelcomed celebration's preparation
just outside