30.Mar.2001

ethereal

--

now.

Diary,

There is something intangible inside of me. It is described merely by words such as visceral, metallic, and ethereal.

I have never told anyone that my favourite word was, in fact, ethereal.

Sometimes, late at night, this word enters my entire being, and is defined by the air that I breathe. I feel that I am suspended in air, only imagined by the surreal, otherwordly ... Sometimes, I strive for this to be instilled into me, by the hand of something wispy and real, and yet it always goes unexplained.

I will never call myself 'ethereal'. Because this, diary, is what I strive to be at all hours. Something quite bizarre that cannot be seen, only felt, in the second layer of flesh that the epidermis could never dream to communicate; there is a second layer of flesh, there, a second layer of something only derided by space and soul, a translucent display of celestiality.

Oh diary.

If only I could endeavour to convey via human language.

Someday, I will touch you, and all of this would make sense.

--

time & machine