Words Of An Idle Mind

Wishful Numbers

It's 11:11.

And I've passed yet another wishful minute, waiting for a miracle to grace my sober body, taking it for a ride over the high of stars and moons and planets and asteroids.

These numbers, they promise me magic that they fail to deliver, never breaking my conviction, my hope. I cling onto them for a semblance of identity.

The pass through me, as seconds, minutes, hours, days and years. They pass through me and I see them pass, but I do nothing to catch them or make them stay. I simply become an invisble, inconsequential boulder in their continuous never ending cycle. I don't matter, I never did, I never will; just like innumerable "me".

It's the feeling of giving in and letting go and feeling everything too – paradoxical I know, but true nonetheless. They add meaning even though they are meaningless.

It's 11:11
Again.

And I am thinking of moving onto a different number now, the previous one lasted long enough to satiate my abstract mind – precisely 11 days, 11 hours, 11 mins of the 11th month of the year.