(no subject)
So, my friend has gone off to Cannes. Cannes. Won a competition at uni - first prize was a screening of their short-collaborative piece in... Cannes. And I can't help but admit that inbetween being extraordinarily happy for them as the plane takes off and they go on to (wherewasitagain?) Cannes, i think to myself "So... When's your plane ticket arriving, eh?"
No, it's not a bikini-clad Lara Bingle asking me 'Where tha bloody hell r ya?', it's my over-inflated sense of self-importance and delusions of grandeur (no doubt cooked from simmering to boiling point by the cult of personality that dogs our western culture etc etc etc [go on man, blame the big bad media, capitalism, whateverthefuck makes it easier for you to externalise your own failings - Eds]) persistently, calmly inquiring, arms crossed like a disapproving mother, "what the bloody hell are you actually doing?"
So I sit here now finishing off an assignment due too long ago, the landfill of my future yawning wide before me, begging to be filled, and I'm trying to think from what spring my passion can be tapped, bottled and traded for opportunity, recognition, achievement, whatever. And what is the one thought that runs through my head, over and over so unashamedly that it runs the risk of becoming a cliche?
God I love the way she smiles.
Hopeless.
No, it's not a bikini-clad Lara Bingle asking me 'Where tha bloody hell r ya?', it's my over-inflated sense of self-importance and delusions of grandeur (no doubt cooked from simmering to boiling point by the cult of personality that dogs our western culture etc etc etc [go on man, blame the big bad media, capitalism, whateverthefuck makes it easier for you to externalise your own failings - Eds]) persistently, calmly inquiring, arms crossed like a disapproving mother, "what the bloody hell are you actually doing?"
So I sit here now finishing off an assignment due too long ago, the landfill of my future yawning wide before me, begging to be filled, and I'm trying to think from what spring my passion can be tapped, bottled and traded for opportunity, recognition, achievement, whatever. And what is the one thought that runs through my head, over and over so unashamedly that it runs the risk of becoming a cliche?
God I love the way she smiles.
Hopeless.