poking holes in rice paper
my favourite sweet as a kid was wrapped in rice paper. transluscent and fragile, it fascinated me, never mind that it didn't actually taste like anything. it made that sweet special. sometimes i feel like i go through life looking through rice paper (not quite rose-coloured glasses), seeing things but not exactly as they are.
i've forgotten how to write, a consequence of not reading and just, general lack of trying.
what does one write about-- imaginary travels, milage clocked in lieu of "productivity"? hopes, dreams, feelings, plain for the world to see? stringing poetry (with meaning indecipherable), concentrating on cadence, flow and emptiness? i feel like i should start writing (again) but i've forgetten how.
sometimes i thik good writing is just good curating/ editing. it would be good to remember the good pieces and forget the bad. that way, we could truly be "Great" (but also delusional?). hmm.
sometimes i don't know if i am happy. happiness, sadness, apathy, they blur together into a general mess of 'things are the way they are'. and sometimes i can be happy, but i poke holes in that because i'm worried/scared/upset. maybe i am just in search of the impossible. like i said, sometimes i am a little bit of a mess.
well, on the whole i guess i'm happy. i certainly don't think i'm unhappy. that counts for something right?