I felt I should write something.

I woke up around 10 and felt like I had slept for hours. I felt groggy and weary about the new day. In the morning the air can feel like a wave taking us out to sea. The day carries me. I ate breakfast. The uncertainty of dreams relays itself upon everything. And what can be certain? The slow morning's light fades that uncertainty away. Outside my window a woman resides. My instincts relax towards my soul. Her figure is womanly. To me her legs look like an object. There it is! That's the reason she can stir something soft within me. I assume she's an object before assuming her a subject. The idea of her mind seems built upon an idea that was once an object. The mystery of the female mind. No mystery. The mystery in the cold morning sun that she has no mystery. I put the water on so I can wait. I don't need a shower. I only have a need to wait for something. I let the shower build towards a goal. I can't seem to do anything with my life. Poetry deserves lyricism. I want to be a writer, I do. But I can't. I remember i once I enjoyed T.S. Eliot. Homer is good. I have to do essays for college.

A few days later I went out and met a girl. I talked to someone I knew and suddenly I couldn't see anything in my future. What will I do? Succeed? And then what will I do? Can watching a film make me feel content? A lover? What means anything? I will read a book. We cannot know the shores we will be taken to. We cannot hope but to hope. I went home and had an undeserved romantic rest.