who believes in easter bunnies anyway?
So today was easter and subsequently (and more importantly) Brigitte and my four month anniversary. It's really annoying when you have to try and celebrate this occasion 450 miles apart from each other, with a family you don't really understand, and who refuse to understand you better, in a church which you don't believe in, with a priest who doesn't make sense in a religion which seems to be getting more ridiculous by the second. And basically i come out of it unbothered by the foolishness occuring around me, but sad and frustrated that i can't be where i should and want to be. Anyways, a few confusions later, she sleeps, and i'm at home $8 poorer due to poker :(.... so now i try to write again with meaning, creativity and originality, sincerely hoping that i may accomplish at least one of these goals....
The morning started dry and bright but as the day progressed to night, the light did fade and all i saw were tears falling through the sky. They collected with monotony and pattered in cacophany, but as the light got soft it seemed that the tears were too full of night, and so a bed was made in this dark air-rade of moisture bombs galore just so that we could nestle into the ocean of tears gathering on floors and i like to think that it looked like ink and our world was just a canvas to sink our fingers filled with remarkeable will and a little black or blue paint, to write or draw or paint or scrawl the words and pictures after all and when we back away from them we see the world we know, taking comfort in the hollow fact that the sun will always glow just as we made it, exactly how it's painted.
The morning started dry and bright but as the day progressed to night, the light did fade and all i saw were tears falling through the sky. They collected with monotony and pattered in cacophany, but as the light got soft it seemed that the tears were too full of night, and so a bed was made in this dark air-rade of moisture bombs galore just so that we could nestle into the ocean of tears gathering on floors and i like to think that it looked like ink and our world was just a canvas to sink our fingers filled with remarkeable will and a little black or blue paint, to write or draw or paint or scrawl the words and pictures after all and when we back away from them we see the world we know, taking comfort in the hollow fact that the sun will always glow just as we made it, exactly how it's painted.