Author: Ater

We are all broken, but love is the moments when we find others who’s pieces will fit with ours to make each of us a little more whole.

Choices that seem easy in the light of day take on a new shape at such a late hour. Sleep or conversation? Sleep or nurishment? Sleep or endless thoughts that take on a life of their own? In the morning it will all seem so much clearer, but for now it all muddles together to make a single formless presence. A weight that seems to rest on your chest making you question if you’re doing the right thing.

You’ve come this far. You’re committed. The only thing to do now is to carry on as if everything up until now has been normal. So you fill the pot with water and set it on the hot burner. Wait until you see it start to boil then add the salt and some of the dry pasta. Wait some more. You’re already used to that part. It’s still not ready. Just a few more minutes and… You waited too long! Quick grab it off the stove and shove the pot under cool water so that you can hopefully save the noodles from over cooking. Drain, pour, season. Taste? It’s a bit off. Some salt and a bit if black pepper. Not bad. It’s late and it’s not even worth leaving the kitchen as you spoon the contents of the bowl into your mouth.

 

Why do the choices feel so different? Is it the pull of the moon? Is it the way the wind pushes around the trees out side the window? Maybe in the morning they’ll feel like the correct ones, but for now all you feel is drained. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow is a new day after all. Well, once you think about it, it’s already tomorrow.

If you want to know where you’re going, look back at where you started. The history

The usual words for “ink” in Latin was atramentum (source of Old French arrement), literally “anything that serves to dye black,” from ater “black;” the Greek word was melan, neuter of melas “black.” The Old English word for it was blæc, literally “black,” and compare Swedish bläk, Danish blæk “ink.” Spanish and Portuguese (tinta) and German (tinte) get their “ink” words from Latin tinctus “a dyeing.”

source: Etymology of ink

Another sleepless night followed by another early morning. So many thoughts that seem to want to be thought in the dark all while the world sits in frozen quiet. Everything that led here has grown cold, but still makes its presence felt. Tick. Tock. Rushing by and standing still. What am I so afraid of? The future can’t be any worse than the past. At least with the past we can pretend about its certainty.

How the seconds drag on while the hours sped by. It’s never as calm on the inside as it is on the outside. I’d tell you a secret, but I’m afraid to hear it out loud. Where to start? Never at the beginning. We could start again, but we already finished too soon. Did you hear that? It was probably nothing more than late night imaginings. But while you’re here could you check the doors and widows? Maybe stay a bit? It is so awfully lonely in here. We always have the same visitors, seems there is never anyone new.