thin filaments
There's a delicacy of intonation, of pronunciation, that I fall in love with. Sounds so refined, so beautifully controlled, and yet free. I struggle with my own reactions, the way I shape interaction. I wish too much lately, it's a bad habit born out of adolescent daydreams that take over reality while the truth is loneliness in shades of grey. So easy to fall into, so easy to sleep the day, the week, the year away. I once spent an entire year hidden in books. I only remember the sunlight from through glass. An entire year. An hour. So incredibly important, so wasted. But only forward motion is acceptable, why fall back into it now, now when not being wastefull is so very important?
I have so many pathetic impulses, it makes me furious. I hide them agressively, but sometimes I wonder how much of me is the urges and how much of me is the struggle to hold them at bay, and after that what's left? And yet that's stupid, so much of who I am simply is, but there are definately the things I won't allow myself to be. Am I a hypocrite if I abhor those who choose not to supress what I deem pathetic? Of course it doesn't matter.
Take people as they are, with everything that's a part of them, and see if your souls mesh. I can never quite function the way it seems I'm expected to. Perhaps I've misunderstood the expectations. What are we doing with our lives? What's next? Why isn't there some incredible rush of dizzying understanding? Am I becoming what I pretend to be or am I pretending to be what I was....am? Am I pretending? Can you tell? These things don't matter. Old men laugh at the questions because they've decided in their wisdom that there aren't answers. Maybe.
I can see a cycle emerging, and I'm not sure I approve of it's nature.