This is where the contradiction becomes the truth.
I'm sad. It's been like this since Saturday Morning. Nothing's really wrong, I'm just sad. I feel really, really terrible. I tried to cheer myself up by spending lots of money on electronics. It helped a bit. Now I have a cool flat screen to stare at and be sad instead of my old monitor... This mood needs to go, seriously. I've got shit to do and I can't be wasting time being mopey. It hasn't helped that Sparky is MIA. She's supposed to arrive on Sat, and I don't even have her plane info. I haven't talked to her in like 2 weeks, so naturally my worry side is aching to show. My inner voice is telling me to relax, and that there's nothing to worry about. Worrying is like hoping for failure. Optimism tastes sour right now, though. Perhaps the best course of action for me is to continue to write in this outlet, and just express my sadness.
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The wet dirt, cloudy mud, the liquid thickness of dark anticipation, smears my mind with propagated propaganda. Blades of saddened grass struggle to keep root as the clodded conglomeration of soil melts under the slow pressure of the rain. I can see the pools of water, behind and in front of my eyes, the projection inverted through my mind, building and growing till the frames fly by in fever and the water ripples violently. The raindrops fall relentlessly down and punish the the ground on behalf of gravity. The evaporating mist hangs low in the sky like the smoke from a battlefield, clouding my reason and muting my heart. I've been deafened by the thunder of worry; the cannonade of insecurity resounding my malformed intents in pervasive manifestations of moisture and headache. It's illogical to think that the way to overcome is to lay down and take the beating. But the cloud cover holds an edict, and it becomes quite obvious that there isn't any other way.
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The wet dirt, cloudy mud, the liquid thickness of dark anticipation, smears my mind with propagated propaganda. Blades of saddened grass struggle to keep root as the clodded conglomeration of soil melts under the slow pressure of the rain. I can see the pools of water, behind and in front of my eyes, the projection inverted through my mind, building and growing till the frames fly by in fever and the water ripples violently. The raindrops fall relentlessly down and punish the the ground on behalf of gravity. The evaporating mist hangs low in the sky like the smoke from a battlefield, clouding my reason and muting my heart. I've been deafened by the thunder of worry; the cannonade of insecurity resounding my malformed intents in pervasive manifestations of moisture and headache. It's illogical to think that the way to overcome is to lay down and take the beating. But the cloud cover holds an edict, and it becomes quite obvious that there isn't any other way.
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