day 160

After the strange occurrence of a forgotten dream I need not wake up to imagine another day. The day will set itself up for living, and I, dreamy as usual, have to live it. Close nearby, the sources of my dreams, stacked in colourful patterns and inviting me to ignore them. My eyes are not truly seeing. I see exactly the same things, and yet not.

The toilet is nearby. There seems like a good first to have.
My day does not start in the morning. My day starts tomorrow. And so I return to bed, dreaming that it is not I who pees, brushes his teeth and eats his breakfast.

With a vague noise, the silent soundtrack in my dream stops. It is impossible for me to capture the faces, the lights, mostly the lights, and the flashes in my waking progress. It is too quick in its stillness, to swift in its quirkiness to fashion an analysis. But no matter, for soon I am busy breathing, standing, walking, peeing.

Each repetition writes a different reality or dream. The order within each repetition may be the same or it may differ. Usually, it involves some consciousness to mastermind a difference. It is somewhat similar to you being conscious to your own breathing. In this instance, I am conscious of my peeing.

In a day, when dreams end and continue as bubbles and colour burns in my closed eyes, there is always this anticipation that wells up and bursts forward to manifest itself as an experience. A few disappointments later, I often find myself asking how the seconds went, and truly it is really all about consciousness - or the lack of it. Anticipation divides me up into the before and the after. Somewhere, I go missing. Of course, now I know as I am writing this. I have gone to pee.

Writing is like peeing, if one chooses such an manner of writing about writing. It is crude repetition. But one should not detest such an analogy. Don't you enjoy the release when you must release? Of course, there are others who pee so often because their bladders are relatively smaller. It is not often a terrific experience; more of a chore I suppose.

And then there is much to say about the quality of the pee. Close to transparency or yellowish waste; sometimes bloody. I have not much else to say.

And then there is control. It takes skill to aim and much can be said about those who can and cannot. The meticulous takes an effort to be clean and precise. The lazy makes a mess. And there is also much to differentiate between those who hide behind the safety of a cubicle, and those who simply want to get out.

So much about peeing.

We should not philosophise the act of peeing. It is as close as it takes to bring us closer to our natural instincts and affinity to animals. And so, it is better left as just a description of an instinctive and natural act. However, it is still worthy to speculate that animals do write; they pee.

But frankly, there are things that keep us going within a day, if a day is to be counted as a day. They are the repetitions that we cannot avoid. They must go on. And one of them is peeing. And with that, I pee that I may sleep with ease, as a marking before a dream and a punctuation after.