examination in conversation
I believe that what we call ideal, with the assumption that what is ideal is unrealistic, is only deemed as such because it is difficult to achieve. It is close to impossible. But who are we if we do not even try?
I slept for about an hour on the orange couch in Ball Hall, our central art building, because I was exhausted and full and fat and unable to read another page of The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
[Thank you, M.]
I've noticed in the past day or two that even when I am tired and I have laid my body down comfortably on a bed or in a chair, I can pick myself back up very quickly and effortlessly, as if I had not been resting at all. Made of springs. And that's what I did when I woke up.
Less than a minute passed and I was out the door.
[I hear Fiona in my head. Now every other man I see, remind me of the one man who disappoint me.. I don't think I told you, M, but I blared it in your apartment while you were at work. I played it over and over. Oh he made my blood just burn, I flipped so far I thought that I would not return.. I danced in your living room with the blinds open. I had paint on my fingers.]
Lists, lists, and more lists.
Because I'm forgetful. Because I am at my most comfortable when I have a lot to do. Because I like to accomplish things, even small tasks such as returning library books or organizing my sock and underwear drawer.
Because because because.
She complains that I always have a reason for what I do. How that warrants a complaint, I'm not sure, but apparently it disgusts her. She wants me to fumble aimlessly. I'm 20 years old, after all.
[M, you're 19, right? Everything is justified.]
But there are things I will not say, will not write.
My reasons do not exist below my skirt. They're here in my head, in my chest, in these hands. It's in a painting I will someday make. It's in the horizon...
Damn you.
I slept for about an hour on the orange couch in Ball Hall, our central art building, because I was exhausted and full and fat and unable to read another page of The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
[Thank you, M.]
I've noticed in the past day or two that even when I am tired and I have laid my body down comfortably on a bed or in a chair, I can pick myself back up very quickly and effortlessly, as if I had not been resting at all. Made of springs. And that's what I did when I woke up.
Less than a minute passed and I was out the door.
[I hear Fiona in my head. Now every other man I see, remind me of the one man who disappoint me.. I don't think I told you, M, but I blared it in your apartment while you were at work. I played it over and over. Oh he made my blood just burn, I flipped so far I thought that I would not return.. I danced in your living room with the blinds open. I had paint on my fingers.]
Lists, lists, and more lists.
Because I'm forgetful. Because I am at my most comfortable when I have a lot to do. Because I like to accomplish things, even small tasks such as returning library books or organizing my sock and underwear drawer.
Because because because.
She complains that I always have a reason for what I do. How that warrants a complaint, I'm not sure, but apparently it disgusts her. She wants me to fumble aimlessly. I'm 20 years old, after all.
[M, you're 19, right? Everything is justified.]
But there are things I will not say, will not write.
My reasons do not exist below my skirt. They're here in my head, in my chest, in these hands. It's in a painting I will someday make. It's in the horizon...
Damn you.