A grammatically unsound tale for those who dwell in caves
Sixteen days ahead of me. Sixteen days before it starts all over again. Sixteen days before the long-awaited future turns into the well-lamented past and I need start waking up at hours too early for my brain to function. One day soon I will fly this place. I will acquire things that look good and I will figure out what makes my hair look nice -- and do it. I will be educated. Filled with information...so much information that my bones will bend under the weight of the ideas that run through my head. And then, another day, I will cease to exist. I spend all of my time thinking of forgotten yesterdays and promised tomorrows hoping that anything might bring meaning to this. but what good can anything do me. What I learn and what I know, what I give and what I find...all of it can only amount to death because that is what I will find. I am told if "evil" comes, I am to fight it - and I like to think I would...to give life for other life so that other lives can be and cease to be. It all ends. Did you ever realize that? Can anyone realize that? Everything ends. A comfort and a constant worry. I count minutes and days in case one day I need to feel as if I have a collection. One day...always one day. I do not know hate, and so I also do not know beauty. I do not thrive. I know nothing. I love nothing. Not even New York. I have no style. Even most of my ideals are gone and replaced with things I hide behind. What is this...my mortality? It is so strange to think about merely because I am so pompous as to believe that with me ends the world. I cannot fathom a place in which I do not exist because I only exist in my own mind. In that way, a world will die with me. A world dies with every person. Must I remain a dreamer? Wake-walking through my dreams and dreaming through my days until both become wasted and they blur together? Or is this the ultimate goal? What ultimate goal? What cliche? The air has been very strange.
Today and yesterday as well as the day before I went Christmas shopping with my mother. I had nothing else to do and I had fun. It pains me to think that as much as I want to leave, three years from now I won't be doing this. I will be in another place entirely living another life. I will be the one to break this...these traditions. This life of childhood and family...the only one I have known so far...the only perspective from which I have seen the world. It will be gone and I will be the one to have stopped it. It will end. It all does. Yet, again here I sit thinking of future times and things undone...about things that never have existed and never will (unless I create them). My days pass as such, and this is not a way of life. Days from now, I will look back on these days. What will I think of? What will have happened. I have sixteen defined days of possibility ahead of me, but what will I make of them? Nothing, as always? Or will it be time for change? I'd like to say change...desperately. I would love to think that all of my wild thoughts of the untrue and my imaginings of the way the world works would come to life, but then again I want nothing more than to sit at home and dream for now. Argg.
I love how, above all other things, Christmas makes people crazy. It makes them feel like the need to be "good people" and they need to buy gifts and go out of their way to be nice. I have been traveling to many stores with my mother, and under normal circumstances she would never go to so many places in search of anything. But, it is Christmas, so shopping is no object. It is continuous, and I love that. Tomorrow, I am doing my own Christmas shopping...maybe Sunday baking. I hate it and I adore it. I can't help but. The goat is my favorite thing though, by far. I feel optimistic, but am afraid to be so. Nothing will go on because I will not let it. I will not become what I have grown to realize I am because I will not let myself. To think I like to pretend to be about self-expression. More of a badly matched entity with a multitude of thoughts whose story-lines never coincide. Fa la ala la. entry-time is over. Happy shopping.
Today and yesterday as well as the day before I went Christmas shopping with my mother. I had nothing else to do and I had fun. It pains me to think that as much as I want to leave, three years from now I won't be doing this. I will be in another place entirely living another life. I will be the one to break this...these traditions. This life of childhood and family...the only one I have known so far...the only perspective from which I have seen the world. It will be gone and I will be the one to have stopped it. It will end. It all does. Yet, again here I sit thinking of future times and things undone...about things that never have existed and never will (unless I create them). My days pass as such, and this is not a way of life. Days from now, I will look back on these days. What will I think of? What will have happened. I have sixteen defined days of possibility ahead of me, but what will I make of them? Nothing, as always? Or will it be time for change? I'd like to say change...desperately. I would love to think that all of my wild thoughts of the untrue and my imaginings of the way the world works would come to life, but then again I want nothing more than to sit at home and dream for now. Argg.
I love how, above all other things, Christmas makes people crazy. It makes them feel like the need to be "good people" and they need to buy gifts and go out of their way to be nice. I have been traveling to many stores with my mother, and under normal circumstances she would never go to so many places in search of anything. But, it is Christmas, so shopping is no object. It is continuous, and I love that. Tomorrow, I am doing my own Christmas shopping...maybe Sunday baking. I hate it and I adore it. I can't help but. The goat is my favorite thing though, by far. I feel optimistic, but am afraid to be so. Nothing will go on because I will not let it. I will not become what I have grown to realize I am because I will not let myself. To think I like to pretend to be about self-expression. More of a badly matched entity with a multitude of thoughts whose story-lines never coincide. Fa la ala la. entry-time is over. Happy shopping.