This is still me.

I am a net trying to catch the foamy waves that are my thoughts. These thought-objetcts that are washing away by my actions of trying to catch them!. I am creating yet more swell running from one room to the next getting ready to get into bed and write my beautiful words that just came to me and are already polluted by the mundane. But I stem from the mundane. I can not extract myself from the mundane and am exacerbated by it.

Some people learn unnatachement through people. I have. But I have also learnt it. Am learning it. Through objects. The word-objects that I have lost in the flight when I lost my mind for a few minutes, --too high fever, too many drugs the night before, too many late night the months before-- a moment of forgetfulness and my book gone. 75% of the best words I've objectified, lost. Well, lost to me, found to someone else. I'm calmer now than a few minutes ago in my frenzied typing, my writing urge of the sea has just softened and I'm tempted to change the tab. Mundane. Hand ache. To much time on the computer at work. Mundane. My life is so less important to write these last few days. My days similar my thoughts similarer.
I'm calm about my book lost, my head is calm, my heart, doesn't beat any faster thinking about the loss, just a little heavier. I'm gently mourning the loss by remembering that I am who I am because I created those writings, they do not exist physically anymore but I still reap their fruit.

So what is the point of my writing ? The answer is mingled up in an urge to write for myself because I honestly believe these thoughts are my most sparkling possessions and every one that flows away is a terrible loss, and because I honestly believe there is truth in them. I need people to know the world as it is lived by me.

Watching a documentary about a science base in Antarctica, where a max of 90 people live there in the 3 months of summer, and sadly this year, none will be able to stay the winter. The people were sad. Sad to leave their home where no money flows, and where you don't have to queue in line to get anything. I recognise this sadness, the sadness of leaving their home caused by the joy of having found one. A home as in a physical place and as in a home of people.

So I write because it's a long rope linking my many lives together, showing me that although I'm not home now, I'm home in myself, and I'll go back to home someday. Showing me also, that whatever I do, I can't keep a hold on the times when I love people when we feel things together when we forget we're even feeling but that I don't have to forget them. I don't have to forget that me, Goodmorning this is Joanna at NewTimes recruitment is also Joanna studying ancient herbs by day and kissing dark boys on not so ancient herbs by night, laughing at the moon and saying hello to the trees. This is still me.