Night ride and sunrise

I was vaguely expecting Apocalypse, stars crashing to each other and dive into the black and Oblivion, but it actually did not happen and at last it is not so bad.
Someone wrote a strange sentence, a bare finger against the dirt of the glass pane, at the bus stop where I was still pacing after another almost sleepless night. This night I hurt myself to see if I could feel the pain ... focused on ... needle. It reminded me of the Delirium story in Sandman's Endless Nights, in which the man that lost his mind was writing prophecies on the brick walls with the blood of his own fingers. There was also a shining triangle drawn on another pane, and I thought strangely that this could have an occult sense that the author of the writings solely understood. I was wondering at the blackness of the night in the early morning, and bravely addressed a smile to the driver as I stepped in the empty bus, instead of trying to say wishes in Finnish. The city was desert, only street sweepers and cleaners.

There might be some longing towards this year that closes, and that has been thus far the best in my life, one of travel, enlightening people and above all releasing of chains and undeserved duties. It seems we are caught in this idea of progress... Perhaps is the fear of failing the following that tainted the night with melancholy.
My hidden character of organisation freak, quite undetectable at first sight, revealed in full light for the new year's evening. As I now use to say, after a certain amount of flunked endeavours and tepid successes, either organizing everything or withdrawing from the process. I switched to the first solution one day before, as nobody else did. Elaborating the plan, fighting back the spoilsport took the night ; we then met in the city, bought food for ten people, I locked myself in the kitchen for hours... the dinner began and I drank straight cups and cups of punch, keeping an eye on the food ; then as I wasn't needed any longer I vanished to a room to sleep.

It was around nine, and the girls came back to take me one minute after midnight. As I was lying in the dark room of the empty building, hearing the fireworks cracking outside, I wished so much someone was there.

Back to the city center after the countdown came down, we queued in front of a club and get dismissed from the same place roughly one hour after as it closed. Meanwhile we had a fair dose of fun, and I was largely complimented about how the evening was running, how incredible was my ability to think about everything, almost foreseeing what the others wouldn't think about, and so on. This is strange for someone that is living in a mess and mislays everything important, in addition to be hardly punctual and forget non-important appointments. I suddenly wondered at the bus stop whether that was an achievement. Well, that is, but what worth ? I've been fighting to improve one by one my weaknesses, to turn from social autism to so-called popular, from duckling to elegance, from ignorance to a yearned deepness, fighting with an outdated picture before the eyes that hides the possible excess it involves. Now that things are almost too easy to prove in the material domain, spirituality, the inaccessible realm that characterizes the people I am still admiring, has become the next horizon. Not sure if I should be too proud of myself. One has, as apologies, his or her own sublimated engines to impel in life.

I like to be the one that turns off the lights and closes the door, the one that watches at night when the others gave up and fell asleep ; I like sleeping downtowns in dead mornings.