My Lady Del pays a visit.
T_T
Dear Life,
My relationship with you can be compared to that of a glamourous Hollywood couple: I'm gay and you hate yourself.
I've always thought that I'd get along with you.
First comes love.
Then comes marriage.
But it seems the bride was trampled by the horse and the carriage.
No one can deny this fact: I used to be brilliant. I used to be the darling of both the academic and artistic industries. I used to be an ideal, a goal, a dream. Not everyone can accept this, but it is conceded to through gritted teeth. Now, look at me. No, don't. Washed up before I even got on my feet. I don't like being seen like this. I don't like being seen as I am, lonely and lonesome, miserable and moved to silence.
Where is my vivacity? Where could it be, aside from at my side? Vivacity has been my constant partner, but it is now lost somewhere, among the ripped-up rough drafts and finished novels.
Ironically, you are the one who sucked the life out of me. I'm just another one of your frozen souls. I can settle for being a bleeding-heart cameraman, but without a heart or camera?
Bender once said that "Screws fall out all the time. The world is an imperfect place.", and looking at the way that things are going, I'm going to be the next one. Just falling, falling, without reaching bottom. There's also a possibility that I'm stagnant, floating, in nothingness, and the world is whirring past me, giving me the feeling of a fall.
In the world in my head, my life is the personification of a line from Rent's La Vie Boheme: Emotion, devotion, to causing a commotion, creation, vacation, mucho masturbation. In this brutal reality, I'm Time flies, time dies, glory, one blaze of glory, an I should tell you, I'm disaster; I forget how to begin it.
I should really blame my ego, my mindset about you, and about success. For so long, I've associated you with success, and success with the materialistic gratification. Sitting on a pedestal for so long made my butt and my sense fall asleep. The figurative-but-nonetheless-somewhat-tangible pins and needles don't hurt dramatically themselves, but the sheer number of all of them pricking half a centimeter into my skin in slow succession is what hurts, and hurts because it's an annoyance that can't be ignored.
I want to quote Daphne, during one of our little talks. I'd rather be have confidence and suck than not have confidence and be brilliant. Her words ring true inside me. Blame me, blame us, for being a tad bit idealistic, naive, even ignorant. It's human nature, methinks, to prefer feeling good than being good. It doesn't matter what anyone tells you, how wonderful you are, how precious your gift, how far you've come, if you don't feel that, you'd put on A Smile then complain about how everyone's a lying bastard. Proof that, at the end of the day, no matter how inferior you see yourself to be, your opinion is what matters most.
Blah, blah, blah!
Maybe you're right. Maybe it's the bout of delirious philosophy that comes pre-birthdays. Or just the blues. This specific summer that you've given to me. It doesn't feel like a summer. That is, in the oh-so-beloved connotation that it brings up. Summer?
What's summer?
Who the hell crams in papers and essays during the summer? Who complains about classes at inconvenient times that coincide with good sleep time? If this is summer, why am I so worried? Why am I so down? So lazy?
So.
Tired.
Life, I want my ooooooooomph back. Return it, lest I be forced to get off my 36-inch ass and yank it out of you.
Or perhaps that's what you'd want me to do.
That's it.
Double-time, people.
Life. Life, Life, Life, Life, Life. You are a bitch. DIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
Lots of luuuuuuuv,
Des
PS. Come back, you whore, I miss you.
I don't know about you, but this stream-of-consciousness thing really helps flush the crap out of the system. \:D/
Dear Life,
My relationship with you can be compared to that of a glamourous Hollywood couple: I'm gay and you hate yourself.
I've always thought that I'd get along with you.
First comes love.
Then comes marriage.
But it seems the bride was trampled by the horse and the carriage.
No one can deny this fact: I used to be brilliant. I used to be the darling of both the academic and artistic industries. I used to be an ideal, a goal, a dream. Not everyone can accept this, but it is conceded to through gritted teeth. Now, look at me. No, don't. Washed up before I even got on my feet. I don't like being seen like this. I don't like being seen as I am, lonely and lonesome, miserable and moved to silence.
Where is my vivacity? Where could it be, aside from at my side? Vivacity has been my constant partner, but it is now lost somewhere, among the ripped-up rough drafts and finished novels.
Ironically, you are the one who sucked the life out of me. I'm just another one of your frozen souls. I can settle for being a bleeding-heart cameraman, but without a heart or camera?
Bender once said that "Screws fall out all the time. The world is an imperfect place.", and looking at the way that things are going, I'm going to be the next one. Just falling, falling, without reaching bottom. There's also a possibility that I'm stagnant, floating, in nothingness, and the world is whirring past me, giving me the feeling of a fall.
In the world in my head, my life is the personification of a line from Rent's La Vie Boheme: Emotion, devotion, to causing a commotion, creation, vacation, mucho masturbation. In this brutal reality, I'm Time flies, time dies, glory, one blaze of glory, an I should tell you, I'm disaster; I forget how to begin it.
I should really blame my ego, my mindset about you, and about success. For so long, I've associated you with success, and success with the materialistic gratification. Sitting on a pedestal for so long made my butt and my sense fall asleep. The figurative-but-nonetheless-somewhat-tangible pins and needles don't hurt dramatically themselves, but the sheer number of all of them pricking half a centimeter into my skin in slow succession is what hurts, and hurts because it's an annoyance that can't be ignored.
I want to quote Daphne, during one of our little talks. I'd rather be have confidence and suck than not have confidence and be brilliant. Her words ring true inside me. Blame me, blame us, for being a tad bit idealistic, naive, even ignorant. It's human nature, methinks, to prefer feeling good than being good. It doesn't matter what anyone tells you, how wonderful you are, how precious your gift, how far you've come, if you don't feel that, you'd put on A Smile then complain about how everyone's a lying bastard. Proof that, at the end of the day, no matter how inferior you see yourself to be, your opinion is what matters most.
Blah, blah, blah!
Maybe you're right. Maybe it's the bout of delirious philosophy that comes pre-birthdays. Or just the blues. This specific summer that you've given to me. It doesn't feel like a summer. That is, in the oh-so-beloved connotation that it brings up. Summer?
What's summer?
Who the hell crams in papers and essays during the summer? Who complains about classes at inconvenient times that coincide with good sleep time? If this is summer, why am I so worried? Why am I so down? So lazy?
So.
Tired.
Life, I want my ooooooooomph back. Return it, lest I be forced to get off my 36-inch ass and yank it out of you.
Or perhaps that's what you'd want me to do.
That's it.
Double-time, people.
Life. Life, Life, Life, Life, Life. You are a bitch. DIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
Lots of luuuuuuuv,
Des
PS. Come back, you whore, I miss you.
I don't know about you, but this stream-of-consciousness thing really helps flush the crap out of the system. \:D/