Eternal boredom at work. And my thoughts are waters that swish and gurgle as the ego transverses in between layers of numbers and journals and accounting handouts. Mostly, they're about previous love affairs, a deep longing for human flesh - like a ravenous vampire on the prowl; what I did, how we did things, and what we'll do enveloped between timbres of muffled moans- provided the possibility, of course.
Certain times they're about Paris. Seoul. Florence. Bangkok. Timbuktu and some who-knows-where Mediterranean paradise where I sun bathe in everlasting sunshine while the waves of a cerulean sea caress the salt-white shore. And I'd read Murakami in between sips of gold wine as my head rest on the legs of my Greek lover. Euphoria and utopia.
Sometimes though they're about ferocious realities, premonitions, like looking ahead at overcast clouds billowing in the horizon. I'd devise plans to shelter from the storm in certain times. But usually I face these circumstances with resignation, 'bahala na' on the loose.
And with the resignation button pressed on, I once again think of that sea. Endless. Blue. Beautiful. With the sun-kissed vacationer blindly ignoring the dark clouds just ahead.