(no subject)
Today I finally managed to wake up earlier than nine. Sleeping is good, weird dreams are even better. I had this fantastic action movie in my head last night. I can't remember any of it though. I think I might have saved someone from a certain death. It might also have involved some cottages and a chainsaw, but I can't be certain.
I'm smiling silently. All these disguises and pieces of personalities, tiny fragments of jigsaw puzzles too large to solve. Mistaken identity doesn't only happen to digital personalities. When so many people only know me as a fragment, then how can I know myself around them? I've seen too many false reflections and distorted mirrors. Who am I? I'm having a Lost in Translation-moment. I might even cry about it in a couple of months. Personality-crisis brought on by sleepiness. Diagnosis one.
I just realised I've always ordered subways with the wrong finish grammar. Should I be ashamed, very ashamed? Should I go to every subway shop and apologise? Or should I wait for the elephant to come knocking on my window first? Why am I writing anyway. Nothing of this will exist in five million years. No one will remember in five thousand years. Not even in five hundred. My throat is sore. I wish I were awake enough to start packing my gear. Goodnight.
(Magic realism in everyday life is nonexistent. Goddammit.)
(Someone prove me wrong, please.)
I'm smiling silently. All these disguises and pieces of personalities, tiny fragments of jigsaw puzzles too large to solve. Mistaken identity doesn't only happen to digital personalities. When so many people only know me as a fragment, then how can I know myself around them? I've seen too many false reflections and distorted mirrors. Who am I? I'm having a Lost in Translation-moment. I might even cry about it in a couple of months. Personality-crisis brought on by sleepiness. Diagnosis one.
I just realised I've always ordered subways with the wrong finish grammar. Should I be ashamed, very ashamed? Should I go to every subway shop and apologise? Or should I wait for the elephant to come knocking on my window first? Why am I writing anyway. Nothing of this will exist in five million years. No one will remember in five thousand years. Not even in five hundred. My throat is sore. I wish I were awake enough to start packing my gear. Goodnight.
(Magic realism in everyday life is nonexistent. Goddammit.)
(Someone prove me wrong, please.)