He seldom spoke, and no one in turn ever spoke to him.
Yes, I am back after a self-determined absence. The amorphous webs of this internet have somehow entangled me once again. I blame it on sheer boredom, but the realization that I am losing contact with all of my friends is probably the central factor. Home is, as they say, where the heart is, and the distance between my body and heart seems to mimic the effect of stretching a rubber band until it snaps. Perhaps I'm not that pulled, that kinetic yet, but the tension rises tangibly.
I'm entering my annual season of apathy--a good four month stretch when schoolwork goes undone, friends go by the wayside, and my mind and emotions relegate themselves to simple survival functions--trying to feel good, making sure I eat, oversleeping, allowing suitable time for general loafing and laziness. It's spring, it's shining, it's chirping birds, it's the reappearance of mountains once cloaked in clouds, it's naps in the grass, it's the windows down and the music up, it's squirming with all this imminent rebirth and I frankly don't give a deuce about taxes or war or busywork or the steadily depleting ozone layer that no one seems to talk about anymore. All this carelessness gives rise to a distinct overcertainty, an inflated surety that everything, in fact, will turn out exactly how I wish it, despite my accompanying thoughts of self-doubt and loathing.
I'm about to microwave a year-old bag of popcorn and watch Raging Bull. I have papers to write, but I feel like procrastinating.
P.S. If any of you read this in time, Sigur Ros will be on Last Call with itty bitty Carson Daly tonight.
I'm entering my annual season of apathy--a good four month stretch when schoolwork goes undone, friends go by the wayside, and my mind and emotions relegate themselves to simple survival functions--trying to feel good, making sure I eat, oversleeping, allowing suitable time for general loafing and laziness. It's spring, it's shining, it's chirping birds, it's the reappearance of mountains once cloaked in clouds, it's naps in the grass, it's the windows down and the music up, it's squirming with all this imminent rebirth and I frankly don't give a deuce about taxes or war or busywork or the steadily depleting ozone layer that no one seems to talk about anymore. All this carelessness gives rise to a distinct overcertainty, an inflated surety that everything, in fact, will turn out exactly how I wish it, despite my accompanying thoughts of self-doubt and loathing.
I'm about to microwave a year-old bag of popcorn and watch Raging Bull. I have papers to write, but I feel like procrastinating.
P.S. If any of you read this in time, Sigur Ros will be on Last Call with itty bitty Carson Daly tonight.