(no subject)
You stand in the light drizzle, waiting for the lights to change. The glare of headlamps glint off the rain-soaked surface, and reflect dimly back to the darkness within your eyes. You stare into space, focusing on everything you see, and seeing nothing your eyes focus upon; the show goes on within your head - the background immaculate, the props perfect, and the voices of the actors ring melodiously, echoing distinctly within the walls of your imagination. You rue the perfect narrative you have constructed within the confines of your self-doubt, because whilst your free hand paints the untarnished canvas, your hand is never free from the chains of your vacillation. Every stroke, every brush, on this endless sailcloth, is constrained by the perfect storm of your own making. Every brush stroke, every line, becomes marred by the perceived inferiority, even absolute perfection would never satisfy... The lights change, and you struggle to take the first step, away from this perfectly imperfect narrative, away from the flaws in your imagination, away from falsity within the truth.
You finally take a step, and release the stale air from your lungs; your next breath brings in the heady joy of a new narrative, and with it, the disappointment that ensues.
You finally take a step, and release the stale air from your lungs; your next breath brings in the heady joy of a new narrative, and with it, the disappointment that ensues.