Misery loves company. The cycle never ends. One miserable thought tends to lend all that is despair to another and soon the entire being is consumed in a state of helplessness not unlike the feeling of free falling into an abysmal depth. That sinking feeling that you just could not get out of.
I love my pity pot. I just love sitting and brooding uncertainly over everything over an uncertain period of time, waiting for my rocket to come and take away all that clouds the better of me.
Life is beautiful. It matters not which myopic perspective we choose to view it from but due to the relative nature of life, a fulfilling smirk of genuine joy over anything could just be waiting at the corner of our lips.
There was a sudden urge to listen to the Smashing Pumpkins as I road tripped back into the city. My life is so mundane that I took pride in addressing that urge by searching for the CDs while doing 90 on the freeway, as a form of rebellion. Because that was what the Pumpkins reminded me of- teenage high school angst-fuelled rebellion; that time of life when you just wanted to break all the rules but your tied-hands could only do so much without getting your ass thrown out of the house. With the sugar sickness, you spy the kidnap kid.
I hate it when my writings feel pretentious like this. I am going in circles in search for something that I could not find because I do not know what I am looking for.
Vancouver looms in three days. I do not even feel the slightest happy about the trip. I feel tired. Indifferent. It is my first and last World Championship but I don't give a fuck. There is a strong neccessity to kick this gloominess before it gets too much into me and spoils the entire trip and my beginning of a new year.
Sex is definitely over-rated. Whatever the fuck happened to getting to know a person and romanticism, unabridged? I like you, you like me; I have what you want, you have what I need; You do things that I like, I return the favor; I leave the morning after, you don't call, we forget each other. A thick red line has to be drawn, before it is all too late to halt consumerism from invading our bedrooms, before sex will always be a mere product that feeds our basic primal wants. The last time we were here, I loved her.
Her brash, audaciously impulsive take on life reflected all that was dull and gray in mine.
She was the vermillion of my life.
I love my pity pot. I just love sitting and brooding uncertainly over everything over an uncertain period of time, waiting for my rocket to come and take away all that clouds the better of me.
Life is beautiful. It matters not which myopic perspective we choose to view it from but due to the relative nature of life, a fulfilling smirk of genuine joy over anything could just be waiting at the corner of our lips.
There was a sudden urge to listen to the Smashing Pumpkins as I road tripped back into the city. My life is so mundane that I took pride in addressing that urge by searching for the CDs while doing 90 on the freeway, as a form of rebellion. Because that was what the Pumpkins reminded me of- teenage high school angst-fuelled rebellion; that time of life when you just wanted to break all the rules but your tied-hands could only do so much without getting your ass thrown out of the house. With the sugar sickness, you spy the kidnap kid.
I hate it when my writings feel pretentious like this. I am going in circles in search for something that I could not find because I do not know what I am looking for.
Vancouver looms in three days. I do not even feel the slightest happy about the trip. I feel tired. Indifferent. It is my first and last World Championship but I don't give a fuck. There is a strong neccessity to kick this gloominess before it gets too much into me and spoils the entire trip and my beginning of a new year.
Sex is definitely over-rated. Whatever the fuck happened to getting to know a person and romanticism, unabridged? I like you, you like me; I have what you want, you have what I need; You do things that I like, I return the favor; I leave the morning after, you don't call, we forget each other. A thick red line has to be drawn, before it is all too late to halt consumerism from invading our bedrooms, before sex will always be a mere product that feeds our basic primal wants. The last time we were here, I loved her.
Her brash, audaciously impulsive take on life reflected all that was dull and gray in mine.
She was the vermillion of my life.
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