(no subject)
I still cry sometimes. Histories are such convoluted things. Often, there is little point to this emotion. I wonder if I simply need to allow my emotion to leave, expressed as it must be. Guggenheim remakes and subterranean murals. All of my earliest ideal-isms idealized still like some country ballad mourning the loss of youth. It serves to show me that what I thought was my best, and doing my best to hold something...all this was yet ineffective. I am reminded that my righteousness-es are filthy. My toughest struggles to understand and be understood failed. I would like to say that this cracked my hubris, but who truly knows that? All I can do is what I ought. If only I could.