. // THE INSOMNIAC'S CALENDAR. )

[sinensys]

"you deserve the world."
"i already have it here with you."

[sinensys]

such is the way of the benign usurper, something whispers to me from the depth of my desk's underside. i lie still, listening for that little mumble. the sound feels unbound by the walls of my chamber, but i know it was not from beyond the room's boundaries. i lie still, in waiting, and do nothing to advance myself in any way, merely seeking some unseen spectre's idle musings. my heartbeat quickens, time ticking into that granular rift.

it takes me a week to hear it once more, and this time it speaks a little more harshly. i am the snake and the crane, immobilised only by my desire to seek something new, something better, it tells me. the meek will inherit the earth, and you, skit, will find your place in it.

i bare my teeth and can only laugh with the gentle reminder that, at the end of the day, inheritance implies secondary ownership. the meek will inherit the earth, but it is the bold who truly taste it first.

and so with my palm armed with these vexations i remind myself of my true elegance. i recite to others numbing niceties and to myself the dogma i had heard only as a whisper in the back of my skull: such is the way of the benign usurper, whose etymology stems from benevolence -- i will not wait for opportunity and will instead strive for self-improvement and development.

[sinensys]

perhaps i will have finally
found my footing again,
and while i haven't found
new ways to be happy, perhaps this
will help me find others
to speak to,
unbound by my own
reclusive tendencies.

(i don't know what awakened me then,
but i don't think i'll be letting go of it
anytime soon)

[sinensys]

i scuttle back and forth,
mouse in dark room,
net displacement zero.

from my nose
drips the gross clear,
and a gloomier shadow
loiters beneath my brow.

and now
my feet leave
a wet white residue
that turns clearer
by the second,
grossly glossy.

perhaps the things i've
cried over are
the things that have
kept me together yet
kept me in place,
slowly stilling as my
feet refuse to move.

[sinensys]

don't want your advice!
just wanna lie here
and think of the times
i didn't wanna cry here.

so go dry your eyes!
don't wanna hear you.
you think you're so wise
but i don't fear you
(never have).

you said we were gonna be the best
but now i'm sat here,
2 am,
sad and on my own
in my own mind.
you sit by me,
you cry with me,
but there's not a point
to all this joint
misery.

i'm busy.

[sinensys]

the wind begs the trees for some water first, and then after the trees' prolonged silence, upturns them in a fit of rage. pity that the winds still thirsts for water, and now there are no trees to threaten.

[sinensys]

"of course he turned back -- even a pebble shrivels with the sun's cooled hiss!"

[sinensys]

"the meek will inherit the earth," the expression goes. it means well, calling upon restraint in place of zeal, upon rationality in place of emotional instinct, upon forgiveness in place of retribution.

it quells the hyper-righteous, and empowers the calm yet wise.

it's a shame that inheritance still implies secondary ownership -- second in line behind the bold who do as they promise, and intend to promise more. i have fallen in line for most of my life, but perhaps i should start cutting ahead as the bold have.

[sinensys]

i held that cloth bag in my hands, the smooth and dark viscose cascading on itself without revealing a clear silhouette of its contents. the fabric's demure exterior is enough for me to bask in the bright and colorful interior, even if others do not see through that synthetic fiber's intricate weaving. for a long time, i held that bag close to myself, never passing it off to anyone -- never passing it off to you. i felt that, if i wasn't careful, the exterior and very-much-real world might tarnish what i carefully cherished and polished. i felt that the real world was a threat to the thing i cradled silently.

but now i stand before you: bag in one arm, blade in the other hand, and a hopeful gaze. i look back down at the bag to carefully carve a little tear for you to see the insides of that world, and when i look up, you are gone. and now i remember -- we've never met outside of that little cloth, laden with every thought that has dripped through my skull. we've never met outside my imagination, and i've dreamt you in my own loneliness.

confused and frustrated, i reseal the bag, disturbing its fibers and disrupting its meticulous chains, woven with meekness and laced with pride. misshapen, it rests against my chest and all i can do is tightly clutch until i think we've met again.

how i tire of my own hopeful inactions.

[sinensys]

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