| I lived in Paris for five months. Verb: to live Tense: past |
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| That's the thing.
It makes us both terribly weak in the knees, but we just shake it off and keep on dancing.
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| Try looking at yourself from the outside.
Whoa, right?
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| It's funny how we're sitting here, almost waiting in anticipation for something that we assume to come later. It's never here, never now. Instead, it's in X number of years, days, minutes, moments in a faraway place. And we're not even sure of that. Swimming, swimming, swimming.
This quarter is almost over, and I sit here trying to assess whether it was short or long. Well, if you want to quantify it, a fall quarter here is 13 weeks. It's not short, it's not long...it's 13 weeks. A set amount. Don't try to add descriptors. 13 weeks of whatever comes, whatever you make, whatever you take and give.
But despite this, this quarter has felt like multiple eras of time. High school was like this, I suppose. Everything started to really change my junior year. Changes freshman and sophomore year were purely a reaction to adjusting to a new environment. Then it became a matter of adjusting to your own skin, the way it feels from both the surface and the underside.
In the past few weeks, some strange tide has come in, carrying remnants of human existence: bits of glass still a deep green, not yet velveted over by dust, sand, and circulation through unexplainable movement. For once in my life, I feel the best way to vocalize myself around people is to not say anything at all unless I really have something to say that I feel that can be verbalized. Speechlessness itself is a strange phenomenon. Words are only able to explain so much. They are liberating at certain times, but they are often confounding to the range of human emotion...the in-between's, the am's, the am not's.
All I can here, on this intangible slate of paper, is that I hope no one else will feel the need to end his or her own life. Or to feel suffocated in his or her own skin, to walk with a heavy step day to night, night to day. I can't exactly say I've been the perkiest person lately...nor do I feel the need to be. Yesterday I was shaking uncontrollably because of everything that has happened recently, but I was only really mad at myself. I'm never satisfied by anything I do. I live for excitement, to be kept on my toes, to live dangerously. And I have difficulty finding that here, surrounded by witnesses of my own nature of self-destructive habit. I used to be inspired by everything and was excited to implement everything to reality. I used to wake up suddenly in the night and get up to write something down, anything. Whether it was for a story, a project, a photograph, or an errand.
Flat soda. It's just like that, right?
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| This addictive personality is going to kill me at this rate.
And I don't like how "Oprah's Book Club" appears automatically in the title below.
Both things are pretty ferociously unacceptable.
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