August air
I hate the places your mind takes you when your body has no where to go.
This morning, for instance, my friends were asleep and I was lying on a couch, thinking about things that I wish I could hide in some dark recess of my mind. It's sick: the colors and memories and embarrassing moments that float into my conscience when I'm left alone with my thoughts. It really is sick.
I'm at Amanda's.
Summer is closing, at least in the freedom aspect. The humidity bit is never ceasing outside.
Amanda's dogs fart and snore.
They have character.
I like talking to people for endless amounts of time. Talking when you don't notice that you've been talking for hours. Oblivious talking.
I'm reading the unabridged journals of sylvia plath. In addition to 3 other books. I feel kind of sleazy, reading someone else's journals. I would hate for my journals to be read posthumously. But then again, you have to be famous for that to happen. I felt the same thing when I was much younger and reading the diary of anne frank. These people didn't count on their journals to be read. Really though, it comes off like an interesting memoir, except without all the projected images and pretensions that the author wants you to see. Because journals are supposed to be secret. Hence the catch 22.
enough random, time for life now.
This morning, for instance, my friends were asleep and I was lying on a couch, thinking about things that I wish I could hide in some dark recess of my mind. It's sick: the colors and memories and embarrassing moments that float into my conscience when I'm left alone with my thoughts. It really is sick.
I'm at Amanda's.
Summer is closing, at least in the freedom aspect. The humidity bit is never ceasing outside.
Amanda's dogs fart and snore.
They have character.
I like talking to people for endless amounts of time. Talking when you don't notice that you've been talking for hours. Oblivious talking.
I'm reading the unabridged journals of sylvia plath. In addition to 3 other books. I feel kind of sleazy, reading someone else's journals. I would hate for my journals to be read posthumously. But then again, you have to be famous for that to happen. I felt the same thing when I was much younger and reading the diary of anne frank. These people didn't count on their journals to be read. Really though, it comes off like an interesting memoir, except without all the projected images and pretensions that the author wants you to see. Because journals are supposed to be secret. Hence the catch 22.
enough random, time for life now.