(no subject)
He began to step back. He took the position of an observer gently surveying his surroundings. He found he could read these creatures. Track their movements. He had been here before, had tasted a dissociation that padded his life, that kept him from ever having to deal with any of those funny little questions in his head.
If i'm not my personality, what's the harm in taking one up? Trying on a suit of neurosis and phobias, relationships that don't exist and don't matter and jokes that will never be told.
Does a writer give up his own life by creating life on paper?
When does an observer become a visitor? An alien in his own world, so befuddled with the absurdity of his surroundings and so utterly at peace with its insanity that he has simply snipped his umbilical cable to material existence.
Why does it seem to me like a sociopath and a monk are the same thing?
Everything always slides into place for me. It always hurts just enough so I can dodge the next bullet but I'm never hit. Why is that? I'm going on so half-assedly into this easy life I have. Should I enjoy it while it's easy or should I excel to be ready for when it's actually a bitch?
I'm young.
I am nineteen years old. And by the kind social standards of this society I am not even expected to be fully responsible for myself if my parents will afford it.
I am going to breathe in the knowledge that I can, soak in the friendships that I've made. I can't kill myself with the heavy questions with a year and a half of my undergraduate career left.
For spring break, me and Lani and whoever else decides to come with are getting into a minivan and heading towards the coast. We're living on the beach for a couple of days and heading south when the wind takes us there.
Let me soak it in. Let me expand in every direction at once.
Let me write and love and be loved and learn.
There'd be no greater joy for me.
If i'm not my personality, what's the harm in taking one up? Trying on a suit of neurosis and phobias, relationships that don't exist and don't matter and jokes that will never be told.
Does a writer give up his own life by creating life on paper?
When does an observer become a visitor? An alien in his own world, so befuddled with the absurdity of his surroundings and so utterly at peace with its insanity that he has simply snipped his umbilical cable to material existence.
Why does it seem to me like a sociopath and a monk are the same thing?
Everything always slides into place for me. It always hurts just enough so I can dodge the next bullet but I'm never hit. Why is that? I'm going on so half-assedly into this easy life I have. Should I enjoy it while it's easy or should I excel to be ready for when it's actually a bitch?
I'm young.
I am nineteen years old. And by the kind social standards of this society I am not even expected to be fully responsible for myself if my parents will afford it.
I am going to breathe in the knowledge that I can, soak in the friendships that I've made. I can't kill myself with the heavy questions with a year and a half of my undergraduate career left.
For spring break, me and Lani and whoever else decides to come with are getting into a minivan and heading towards the coast. We're living on the beach for a couple of days and heading south when the wind takes us there.
Let me soak it in. Let me expand in every direction at once.
Let me write and love and be loved and learn.
There'd be no greater joy for me.