i am writing again. i don’t know why. i am one of the laziest people i know. and i don’t even know how. to write, i mean, not to laze. i have elevated laziness to an art-form that i could write a book about it. if lazing were a spirituality, i would be one of its englightened gurus. people from all over would flock to my cave (because the upkeep of a temple would be illogical and antithetical to lazing.)
and yet, somehow, like a stub of a candle set alight by the blazing of a star, i find myself unable to sit like a spider in the shadows i have spun. i think my last sentence is called a mixed methaphor, isn’t it?
refrain: well, i am sorry. you must have mistaken me for someone who gave a damn. (not really sorry.)
just put it down as creative license. i am drawn to figures of speech like a moth to a flame, whose facination blinds him to the likelihood of a fiery death. by ferris buehler’s words, lived my life I have. (wow. i sound just like master yoda.) “it is better to burn out than to fade away.” wait, i think a line from “highlander” that is. “life moves pretty fast. if you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” yeah, that’s what ferris (a.k.a. matthew broderick) said.
refrain: well, i am sorry. you must have mistaken me for someone who gave a damn. (not really sorry.)
i like metaphors and personifications and ironies. i like sand, surf, sunsets. and words and phrases that come in threes. stillness, silence, solitude. always abusively alliterative.
refrain: well, i am sorry. you must have mistaken me for someone who gave a damn. (not really sorry.)
why am i talking(?) writing(?) thinking(?) like delirium of the endless?… i find myself stirring, writing down thoughts and feelings. like a butterfly drawn to a flower, i find myself once again stopping to smell the roses. by “smelling”, i mean “writing”; and by “writing”, i actually mean “writing”. i don’t mean typing or updating my blog—now, “blogs” with the advent of facebook, tumblr, instagram—i mean “writing”, scribbling, old-school, on a small leatherbound journal i now always carry around.
because i found that it helps. smelling. or writing. or dying. it really does. it helps when upon getting up every single day, i don’t know if i’m gripped by genius or maniacal with madness. it helps when every time i look in the mirror, i see a face scarred by experience and weathered by time and ravaged by doubt. it helps when dealing with love, loss, and lonliness.
each skritch-skritch of my gtec 0.4 helps clear away the scabs and heal the scars, freeing my heart to find a rhythm once more… a heart bursting with happiness and brimming with love and buoyed by hope.
it helps when i have a lifetime pass to the roller coaster of highest-heaven-and-deeepest-depths.
via Tumblr http://ift.tt/15DKBfu
and yet, somehow, like a stub of a candle set alight by the blazing of a star, i find myself unable to sit like a spider in the shadows i have spun. i think my last sentence is called a mixed methaphor, isn’t it?
refrain: well, i am sorry. you must have mistaken me for someone who gave a damn. (not really sorry.)
just put it down as creative license. i am drawn to figures of speech like a moth to a flame, whose facination blinds him to the likelihood of a fiery death. by ferris buehler’s words, lived my life I have. (wow. i sound just like master yoda.) “it is better to burn out than to fade away.” wait, i think a line from “highlander” that is. “life moves pretty fast. if you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” yeah, that’s what ferris (a.k.a. matthew broderick) said.
refrain: well, i am sorry. you must have mistaken me for someone who gave a damn. (not really sorry.)
i like metaphors and personifications and ironies. i like sand, surf, sunsets. and words and phrases that come in threes. stillness, silence, solitude. always abusively alliterative.
refrain: well, i am sorry. you must have mistaken me for someone who gave a damn. (not really sorry.)
why am i talking(?) writing(?) thinking(?) like delirium of the endless?… i find myself stirring, writing down thoughts and feelings. like a butterfly drawn to a flower, i find myself once again stopping to smell the roses. by “smelling”, i mean “writing”; and by “writing”, i actually mean “writing”. i don’t mean typing or updating my blog—now, “blogs” with the advent of facebook, tumblr, instagram—i mean “writing”, scribbling, old-school, on a small leatherbound journal i now always carry around.
because i found that it helps. smelling. or writing. or dying. it really does. it helps when upon getting up every single day, i don’t know if i’m gripped by genius or maniacal with madness. it helps when every time i look in the mirror, i see a face scarred by experience and weathered by time and ravaged by doubt. it helps when dealing with love, loss, and lonliness.
each skritch-skritch of my gtec 0.4 helps clear away the scabs and heal the scars, freeing my heart to find a rhythm once more… a heart bursting with happiness and brimming with love and buoyed by hope.
it helps when i have a lifetime pass to the roller coaster of highest-heaven-and-deeepest-depths.
via Tumblr http://ift.tt/15DKBfu
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