Raindrops keep falling on my head
You know what undermines my resolve - any good resolve - most of time?
WEATHER. and fiction.
Imagine sitting late at night at home, mentally picking outfits for tomorrow, then going to sleep thinking you'll look like a pretty thing - or at least like a decent human being - tomorrow only to wake up the next day in a gloomy grey room to the sounds of rain, absolutely loathing the idea of letting go of your cozy, cozy blanket, let alone dressing up.
But I still had that drive from yesterday bubbling (or sizzling by now) in my veins, so I even put on whatever felt bright and classy (as in dignified, not suit-like) at the same time, and let me tell you, it felt great to actually stand up and do something (I sound like a Mowgli of sorts right now, don't I? Wait, don't tell me.)
I endured the morning rain, and valiantly tried to go on feeling good despite seeing one of those girls from my year who always look so disgustingly polished and ladylike any given time of the day (brr, are they even human? do they never have a bad hair day? Come again, maybe they don't, because the last I heard they have haircuts that cost like your average cellphone). I even tried not to mind my knee too much, so I am rather proud of myself. Work hard, self.
But it's harder to concentrate on making real life feel good when fiction is so much more fascinating. YES, Yukio Mishima, I'm talking about you, bless your insightful, warped, deliciously Japanese mind. I'll be writing more about you soon, just let me finish the first book of the series first. So far Spring Snow entertains me with its insights into the minds of young aristocrats in the late Meiji era, the most delightful experience coming from ever-so-agonized Kiyoaki fascinated and tortured by his own sensitivity and "abstract anxieties". As Mark put in once, it feels so good to read a book with real sentences again. Simply put, I'm delighted, but as I said, more on that later.
Why is my life a compromise between reality and fiction, once again?:)
WEATHER. and fiction.
Imagine sitting late at night at home, mentally picking outfits for tomorrow, then going to sleep thinking you'll look like a pretty thing - or at least like a decent human being - tomorrow only to wake up the next day in a gloomy grey room to the sounds of rain, absolutely loathing the idea of letting go of your cozy, cozy blanket, let alone dressing up.
But I still had that drive from yesterday bubbling (or sizzling by now) in my veins, so I even put on whatever felt bright and classy (as in dignified, not suit-like) at the same time, and let me tell you, it felt great to actually stand up and do something (I sound like a Mowgli of sorts right now, don't I? Wait, don't tell me.)
I endured the morning rain, and valiantly tried to go on feeling good despite seeing one of those girls from my year who always look so disgustingly polished and ladylike any given time of the day (brr, are they even human? do they never have a bad hair day? Come again, maybe they don't, because the last I heard they have haircuts that cost like your average cellphone). I even tried not to mind my knee too much, so I am rather proud of myself. Work hard, self.
But it's harder to concentrate on making real life feel good when fiction is so much more fascinating. YES, Yukio Mishima, I'm talking about you, bless your insightful, warped, deliciously Japanese mind. I'll be writing more about you soon, just let me finish the first book of the series first. So far Spring Snow entertains me with its insights into the minds of young aristocrats in the late Meiji era, the most delightful experience coming from ever-so-agonized Kiyoaki fascinated and tortured by his own sensitivity and "abstract anxieties". As Mark put in once, it feels so good to read a book with real sentences again. Simply put, I'm delighted, but as I said, more on that later.
Why is my life a compromise between reality and fiction, once again?:)