(no subject)
life brands us in peculiar fashions, moulds us into certain shapes and then thrusts us into the fiery kiln of situation, surrounding and peers.
"the time my life changed," not one moment or a single hour but a bundle of these instances strung together. i sometimes think we wear these linked experiences like paper necklaces, on display for all to see but fending off approaches in fear of their fragility. or perhaps it is only myself, since others cling to each other, loops tangling, so their breaking apart becomes almost a painful thing.
they say 25% of us are introverts, shunning conversation, flashing frozen, unnatural grins when pressed into small talk. they discuss genetic predisposition, the effects of parental rejection and possible ways of overcoming this pitiable mental condition (they, of course, being part of the more sociable 75). i sometimes think however--as it is my nature to disagree simply in the interests of thinking such things over--that things are not as complex as made out to be. we wear life's introverted thumbprint; she shoves us into the oven of fate, on the outskirts of conversations, on the edges of society itself so we become keen observers instead of active participants. and when we find the interactions feeble and retreat to more creative theoretical constructions inside our heads, who can blame us?
for life has made us what we are, as firmly and as thoroughly as if she had birthed us wholly formed, 25% of us, willfully drowning in our isolation for the sake of the sensation, 75% rambling on pointlessly like this essay.
perhaps imitation is art?
"the time my life changed," not one moment or a single hour but a bundle of these instances strung together. i sometimes think we wear these linked experiences like paper necklaces, on display for all to see but fending off approaches in fear of their fragility. or perhaps it is only myself, since others cling to each other, loops tangling, so their breaking apart becomes almost a painful thing.
they say 25% of us are introverts, shunning conversation, flashing frozen, unnatural grins when pressed into small talk. they discuss genetic predisposition, the effects of parental rejection and possible ways of overcoming this pitiable mental condition (they, of course, being part of the more sociable 75). i sometimes think however--as it is my nature to disagree simply in the interests of thinking such things over--that things are not as complex as made out to be. we wear life's introverted thumbprint; she shoves us into the oven of fate, on the outskirts of conversations, on the edges of society itself so we become keen observers instead of active participants. and when we find the interactions feeble and retreat to more creative theoretical constructions inside our heads, who can blame us?
for life has made us what we are, as firmly and as thoroughly as if she had birthed us wholly formed, 25% of us, willfully drowning in our isolation for the sake of the sensation, 75% rambling on pointlessly like this essay.
perhaps imitation is art?