Blobs and thought fogs

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I wonder If I will ever get up from the floor.

Laying down on the old carpet that I firmly refuse to hoover. Among the little food traces and thousands of lost hair strings, I feel comfortable. A weird company, perhaps…

Everything here is timeless for a brief second. Getting yourself lost in the moment is charming, although the wonderful ‘episode of loosing oneself’ is bound to be depicted differently and most certainly dependent on depictor.

I wonder why no one writes books about this brief excellence or maybe even involves it in a crappy 120 min lenght script of a B-rated movie? Has a  simple and plain scene became hard to afford in the times when one needs to stand out desperately? Ridiculous, but  somehow in our minds, an idea was planted that it all seems more magical if you have a handsome guy/girl next to you, or for a different genre –  some cigarettes and depressive thoughts. Props became a necessity. A decoration, to accessorize boring things.

Fuck it.

My little moments are by myself.  Not involved into anyone or anything. And during those I am glad to be keeping up with the tradition.

Thoughtless staring at the ceiling… It later progress into the blob of thoughts. Uncontrollable, non tamable and like the wind. The one when you are sitting outside during the lunch break and trying to eat your salad with a vegan spin off: really naughty and annoying, but still doesn’t make you maneuver for the indoor seating.

You enjoy outside. You enjoy the wind.

The windy thoughts on a trashy floor.

Saturday.

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