The past is within us and plagues our perception of the present. At present, I am home, sitting in a ship of my own building, on my building, and I am building a sense of rapport with this new journal. This is my first journal entry. I am writing for my sanity. I am writing to make sense of last night’s dream. I am writing because it is the second best—building is the best—business that I can give to my hands when Aria is asleep and I do not wish to disturb her. The Sun is rising and I’m perched on the skyline. Can you see me here, Aria? Here is another letter to be delivered to your sleep.
My presence
sparks the dream. <== pretentious
Are you dreaming, Love?
Without you, would I
have found the patience
to sit here and write?
The workings of a muse.
The simple workings of love.
The dubious workings of sleep.
And if not only must we rest our
bodies but also the space
for barricades we place around
our mind to dissolve.
A story taking place
that we must allow
to tell itself.
Is it a simple collage
of observational experience?
Add humor and you have
the job of a comedian.
The job of the dreamer?
The painter who spreads memory
across the sky and never leaves room
for the Sun.