For so long fear of accusations of self-indulgence have kept me mediocre. Cause everyone gets sick of it in the end. And no-one wants to hear it with a predictability that would out-do the tides and the moon and the fall of the exhaling chest. I tell myself. Religious doctrine. Repeat it over and over and it becomes real; like the goblin you're convinced is sitting in the corner of the room. Smirking. Cursing. Laughing - you're the only one who believes him into existance. She chants 'there's no need to write of inner chaos when your actual waking-life is chaotic.' Oh how wrong she was. This is emotional turbulence unlike any I have known. It's rapid. And it's consecutive. And everyone is falling to/for/from someone and that someone has no idea why. Do you get an allocated allowance of this stuff in your lifetime? And does she use up all of hers now, without thought, without true desire, without thinking of the next sixty years alone? Eyes follow the mind out of the window, over the roof, and entwine with the sky of grey. Depth of field becomes a concept. Discernment a joke. The grey is either so close and small and screaming impending doom, temporarily. Or it is so far away and so vast that it will continue a la infinity. How do you know? You don't. What can you do? Nothing. When will it stop? Never. And so-on and so-on. Simplification is bound in this... When you go home, lie down with the one who loves you.
Cause the one you love can't sleep xXx
Cause the one you love can't sleep xXx
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i missed you lots when i was away, even though you live nowhere near me anyways.
crazy.
x