...around the Bay of Biscay and back for tea.
I woke at three thirty in the morning to the sound of something crashing down from my ceiling. I was confused for a moment, but soon figured out that the lanterns hung above my television finally stopped resisting gravity and found their way to the carpeting. I grumbled in my sleep and thought about how annoying it would be to have to come home from work and reinstall the useless hook, went to the kitchen and grabbed some water (where's my hamburger mug?) and went back to bed again.
Here I am at home, riding a wave of nostalgia for all those songs I loved but have foresaken in order to devour as much pop music as possible. I decided to fuck putting up the lanterns again and instead I'm going for a look that suggests that no one has ever cleaned this room, a look in which my floor seems to have millions of wires running all over it (stereo to computer, PS2 to television, telephone to wall, AC adapter to PDA, etc.). Fuck a lampshade or anything, I currently have a light bulb sitting on top of a funny picture of Gisele that I clipped from the South China Morning Post years ago.
Right now, This is a Low seems to be the most appropriate song in the world, even though my life has nothing to do with British shipping channels. The feel and the nostalgia that this song gives is incredible and added to it, the fact that I received a Christmas gift from my father for the first time in years, along with the Chinese greeting card he included in it.
I find myself daydreaming about a relationship in which we share dark spaces and debate about everything under the sun. Why can't sport be discussed alongside art? Why can't philsophy and trashy television share the same conversation? Why can't I seriously explain why Sound of the Underground is one of the best singles in the past five years while extolling the virtues of the first Stone Roses album? I want to be challenged and to think about things, instead of becoming this lazy slob in terms of my intellect these past couple of years. I find myself in my cubicle, staring at pictures of my friends and I sit there thinking that there's got to be something beyond that for me. I don't know if I am destined to become something greater or if those ultimate dreams of mine, in which I just want to find myself married and in a successful relationship are all I can ever strive for. I have no drive, no ambition and I don't even know what "more" means.
I like these past couple of days of myself, in which I seem to be stumbling towards madness, in which what I write is no longer centred on the foolishness of boy-and-girl-hold-hands. Perhaps not foolishness, but maybe it's a different boy-and-girl-hold-hands that I'm striving for, a different one that seems possible and a self in which I ramble on and on and I haven't felt this way in ages. I smirk to myself and seem smug, even though I know that in me, I'm dying a second death, but without this death, I can never move forward and transcend this stupidity I've been mired in for months.
I wonder how I will look back on these days, those cold nights walking to the bus stop to get home, contrasted with the flourescence of work and the endless cheerful greetings. Living with three people I'm not related to and the regression in terms of my musical tastes. This sort of purgatory, in which I'm trying to figure out what the fuck I'm doing while enduring this lonely stretch (which feels fine right now, but just hits at sudden times and with crippling effect). Maybe I need to straighten up and fly right or maybe I'll never know what type of life is meant or even hinted for me.
Time to do the dishes, have a drink and maybe de-camp to Dot's. Crikey, I'm starving.
Here I am at home, riding a wave of nostalgia for all those songs I loved but have foresaken in order to devour as much pop music as possible. I decided to fuck putting up the lanterns again and instead I'm going for a look that suggests that no one has ever cleaned this room, a look in which my floor seems to have millions of wires running all over it (stereo to computer, PS2 to television, telephone to wall, AC adapter to PDA, etc.). Fuck a lampshade or anything, I currently have a light bulb sitting on top of a funny picture of Gisele that I clipped from the South China Morning Post years ago.
Right now, This is a Low seems to be the most appropriate song in the world, even though my life has nothing to do with British shipping channels. The feel and the nostalgia that this song gives is incredible and added to it, the fact that I received a Christmas gift from my father for the first time in years, along with the Chinese greeting card he included in it.
I find myself daydreaming about a relationship in which we share dark spaces and debate about everything under the sun. Why can't sport be discussed alongside art? Why can't philsophy and trashy television share the same conversation? Why can't I seriously explain why Sound of the Underground is one of the best singles in the past five years while extolling the virtues of the first Stone Roses album? I want to be challenged and to think about things, instead of becoming this lazy slob in terms of my intellect these past couple of years. I find myself in my cubicle, staring at pictures of my friends and I sit there thinking that there's got to be something beyond that for me. I don't know if I am destined to become something greater or if those ultimate dreams of mine, in which I just want to find myself married and in a successful relationship are all I can ever strive for. I have no drive, no ambition and I don't even know what "more" means.
I like these past couple of days of myself, in which I seem to be stumbling towards madness, in which what I write is no longer centred on the foolishness of boy-and-girl-hold-hands. Perhaps not foolishness, but maybe it's a different boy-and-girl-hold-hands that I'm striving for, a different one that seems possible and a self in which I ramble on and on and I haven't felt this way in ages. I smirk to myself and seem smug, even though I know that in me, I'm dying a second death, but without this death, I can never move forward and transcend this stupidity I've been mired in for months.
I wonder how I will look back on these days, those cold nights walking to the bus stop to get home, contrasted with the flourescence of work and the endless cheerful greetings. Living with three people I'm not related to and the regression in terms of my musical tastes. This sort of purgatory, in which I'm trying to figure out what the fuck I'm doing while enduring this lonely stretch (which feels fine right now, but just hits at sudden times and with crippling effect). Maybe I need to straighten up and fly right or maybe I'll never know what type of life is meant or even hinted for me.
Time to do the dishes, have a drink and maybe de-camp to Dot's. Crikey, I'm starving.