like peter pan (or superman)
“She longed to do something that would prevent her from returning. She longed to destroy brutally the past seven years of her life. It was vertigo. A heady, insuperable longing to fall.”
I have been taking some painstaking measures to be alone lately, succumbing to the fragile sensation of isolation coupled with exhaustion of pretense and miles of garishly functional visages. I want so desperately and naively to understand in every sense of the word, the world, not just myself or the enormous happenstance of my life and how it has chanced to unfold - I want to understand thoroughly what makes these songs that I have been playing on repeat only for the past day seem so tenderly familiar; why even though I have cloistered myself, time seems to still pass so quickly despite my desperate attempts to arrest it, to possess it. I’ve been studying up on imprisoned faces, dead places, anachronistic paragraphs; all in this attempt to implement history to learn the present, to at least partially assuage the unrelenting ache of ‘why’, the longing for the simultaneous combination of substance and lightness and significance and completion that must somehow be possible in this inscrutable life. Somehow.
At night I dream about swimming in the ocean; I wake up in the morning with the taste of salt still in my mouth.
--end--
I have been taking some painstaking measures to be alone lately, succumbing to the fragile sensation of isolation coupled with exhaustion of pretense and miles of garishly functional visages. I want so desperately and naively to understand in every sense of the word, the world, not just myself or the enormous happenstance of my life and how it has chanced to unfold - I want to understand thoroughly what makes these songs that I have been playing on repeat only for the past day seem so tenderly familiar; why even though I have cloistered myself, time seems to still pass so quickly despite my desperate attempts to arrest it, to possess it. I’ve been studying up on imprisoned faces, dead places, anachronistic paragraphs; all in this attempt to implement history to learn the present, to at least partially assuage the unrelenting ache of ‘why’, the longing for the simultaneous combination of substance and lightness and significance and completion that must somehow be possible in this inscrutable life. Somehow.
At night I dream about swimming in the ocean; I wake up in the morning with the taste of salt still in my mouth.
--end--