Underdogs and Tidal Waves

Southside of Mellow
2011-10-17 01:49:24 (UTC)

Notes from a Pillow Book

For most of my life, I've been consumed by stories.
By books.
I long for the romanticism of written word, to be able to press the ink against paper, to create tangible thoughts, but I know that unfortunately written word can be used to incriminate.

There are these intrigues unfolding around me.
I know that I must keep them in a furtive state.

I feel vulnerable, almost like an adolescent again, a few years into starting this journal.
With things being beyond my control, I'm at the mercy of others and find myself trying to re-establish my identity in a place that I'm trying to re-assimilate into.

These patterns are beginning to become more obvious and their lures have become more disorienting or mesmerizing.
In person, I am cool, calm, and controlled, giving almost no hint of being tangled. I've learned how to stifle the look of dreaminess flushed over my face afterward, to give the illusion of still being on Earth.

But when I'm alone, I've begun reeling. And though these small instances are amusing, it's strange to be almost certain without being so at all.

And I've become used to railing against the poisonous fury of revelry and vice after the day is done, but in these days when most are miserable, and even the morning afterward, I find myself wondering, is this still truly enough for me?
These fleeting moments of chemical bliss, of being frenzied contrasted to those quiet nights of being alone with my thoughts.

But my thoughts have begun to become as feverish as an adolescent's.




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