The Spirits Of Days, i

    Have days ever thought of wriggling out of our hands and doing what they'd like to do most, regardless of the mindgames of us experiencing them? I wish mine would. I imagine my day pulling me out of bed to get picked up by, and be squeezed between, three young women and a potentially sexperimentally interesting young man in a convertible headed for beach with sun tingling the cathode ray tube tiredness out of the eyes I still cannot believe. All I would have thought of was wrestle with myself for another day's precious time, ending up with only a fifth of what i would like to have lived after.

    Days don't care about history, i suspect. They seem to reluctantly follow the tracks we laid out in the days that came before them, also against their will, imbibing the crap we push through them with our big and small hands. In Dutch, someone who is a bit deranged is referred to as being 'ge·tikt', and we seem to be ticked by our creation of 'clock' a little too much over history. No, days don't like it, I'm sure, being labeled and crammed into agendas before they even dawn their first light on us. And if we do happen to wake up before we planned to, it's like the day takes us with its nimble, just hours-young hands and tickles us with all the fresh dewy inspiration she can muster... probably having been warned about the straitjacket of time management by sister yesterday. Children of the sun they are, but they have their dark side as well...

    Now as I'm writing at 0:35 AM, my day's wrinkled hands are holding on to me, without the strength to, but merely intending to pull me downstairs, slip off my clothes and be by my sleep dismissed to her nightly grave. It's only for her deathly weakness that I hold out so long at night... keeping awake throughout one is at first a blessing.. we meet a new day coming right out of the galaxy's birth contractions, and get to feed it with our own dreams as it blinks to our electric light from desk lamps and monitors... but also the moaning corpse, now confusedly enduring her new name, yesterday, still moans at us when we trod her chest in nightly dances full of dawning energy, giving the moment a, grave, tinge of tiredness. Tired, as in dirty, old, tires, piled up too high, and toppling... into sleep.