The world has a sense of humour. Thank God for that.
Days like today always get me. The sky is pale pale blue, and the clouds are heavy grey hanging nouns. The light is dull, almost colourless; and there is this delightful, intense sense of expectation in the air, almost like anything could happen. Every little burst of breeze adds to it, little gusts that blow at you unexpectedly and make you smile and shrug and grimace and giggle. Everything is sharper and denser and more real, somehow.
Here is a thought: what everyone really wants in life is someone they can take for granted always. Do I not, then? Watch me pirouette and flash and flame and ask you, well, then, do you love me? And then, watch me push and pull and tug and tease and demand, how much do you love me? I have a wonderful way of pushing and pushing and pushing, till something gives. From such do I derive my perverse pleasure.
I have been getting acquainted with myself. Sometimes I am boring. It is true, and it hurts. I grow slowly reconciled to the fact that I will never be anywhere near as brilliant as I would like to be, and am probably not as brilliant as I timidly think I might be. That is something life will teach you if you are really willing to learn - your limitations, and then your utter lack of them. But truly, I would rather be brilliant and believe myself not than the other way around. There is already far too much mediocrity that passes itself off as more than it is, and I refuse to be of that number.
Another thought: what is the point, after all, of purposeless conversation?
A day has such great capacity to be filled. What is truly amazing is the fact that all it takes is a few minutes to take any ordinary day and make it extraordinary.
I feel dusky and smoky and indistinct and intangible and ethereal. My hair smells of coffee and cigarettes. Exeunt stage right.
Life wooes me, and I am not averse.
Days like today always get me. The sky is pale pale blue, and the clouds are heavy grey hanging nouns. The light is dull, almost colourless; and there is this delightful, intense sense of expectation in the air, almost like anything could happen. Every little burst of breeze adds to it, little gusts that blow at you unexpectedly and make you smile and shrug and grimace and giggle. Everything is sharper and denser and more real, somehow.
Here is a thought: what everyone really wants in life is someone they can take for granted always. Do I not, then? Watch me pirouette and flash and flame and ask you, well, then, do you love me? And then, watch me push and pull and tug and tease and demand, how much do you love me? I have a wonderful way of pushing and pushing and pushing, till something gives. From such do I derive my perverse pleasure.
I have been getting acquainted with myself. Sometimes I am boring. It is true, and it hurts. I grow slowly reconciled to the fact that I will never be anywhere near as brilliant as I would like to be, and am probably not as brilliant as I timidly think I might be. That is something life will teach you if you are really willing to learn - your limitations, and then your utter lack of them. But truly, I would rather be brilliant and believe myself not than the other way around. There is already far too much mediocrity that passes itself off as more than it is, and I refuse to be of that number.
Another thought: what is the point, after all, of purposeless conversation?
A day has such great capacity to be filled. What is truly amazing is the fact that all it takes is a few minutes to take any ordinary day and make it extraordinary.
I feel dusky and smoky and indistinct and intangible and ethereal. My hair smells of coffee and cigarettes. Exeunt stage right.
Life wooes me, and I am not averse.
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