Maybe it's not the moon, at all--
Darling Justin,
as I write this to you, it occurs to me that I do not even know whether you will ever read it. This nostalgia floods over me as the faintest hints of light flood into my window... these early mornings always bring back memories of what used to be, and lost hope of what might have been...
Okay, sorry, enough of that. I don't mind your readers thinking that I speak randomly of asthma and dirt hills. I do that sometimes. In fact, although the topic varies, I do that quite a lot.
Dirt... what kind of dirt? Well, I suppose it's the kind that is packed in firmly enough to make a small hill in the background that the children can play on, but still dirt-like enough to get their hands and clothes dirty as a consequence.
No one can understand my artistic reasoning for having set that post to Saturday's date.
Not even me.
No, it wasn't intentional. It was simply a glitch-- this site rejects my art, and tells me that my kind is no longer welcome here. And when I finally succeed, it subtley tells the readers that it's "old news." "Last season." "Outdated."
Damn them...
And now, back to the show--
I could feel the cool concrete beneath my bare feet, supporting my weight as much as it was supporting its own. The sounds of the freeway reminded me faintly of the ocean, and I closed my eyes, wishing I could close my heart to the dreadful, inevitable cynicism that such sentiments arouse. Summer nights have grown chilly; emotions have become unintelligible. Pain feels to me as exhillaration; inspiration feels to me as sorrow. Happiness does not equate, is not recognized. The countdown rolls steadily forth, until days bleed in to one another-- I can no longer tell where the day begins and where inspiration ends. This endless struggle to create-- against all odds-- is the only panacea I know; guard me against these platitudes, these last days of sunshine that are filled with such palpable acerbity. Until the day comes when I'll watch these city lights fading in the rear view mirror, I am left here to meekly grasp for inspiration, holding on with as much strength as these sleepless nights will grant me.
as I write this to you, it occurs to me that I do not even know whether you will ever read it. This nostalgia floods over me as the faintest hints of light flood into my window... these early mornings always bring back memories of what used to be, and lost hope of what might have been...
Okay, sorry, enough of that. I don't mind your readers thinking that I speak randomly of asthma and dirt hills. I do that sometimes. In fact, although the topic varies, I do that quite a lot.
Dirt... what kind of dirt? Well, I suppose it's the kind that is packed in firmly enough to make a small hill in the background that the children can play on, but still dirt-like enough to get their hands and clothes dirty as a consequence.
No one can understand my artistic reasoning for having set that post to Saturday's date.
Not even me.
No, it wasn't intentional. It was simply a glitch-- this site rejects my art, and tells me that my kind is no longer welcome here. And when I finally succeed, it subtley tells the readers that it's "old news." "Last season." "Outdated."
Damn them...
And now, back to the show--
I could feel the cool concrete beneath my bare feet, supporting my weight as much as it was supporting its own. The sounds of the freeway reminded me faintly of the ocean, and I closed my eyes, wishing I could close my heart to the dreadful, inevitable cynicism that such sentiments arouse. Summer nights have grown chilly; emotions have become unintelligible. Pain feels to me as exhillaration; inspiration feels to me as sorrow. Happiness does not equate, is not recognized. The countdown rolls steadily forth, until days bleed in to one another-- I can no longer tell where the day begins and where inspiration ends. This endless struggle to create-- against all odds-- is the only panacea I know; guard me against these platitudes, these last days of sunshine that are filled with such palpable acerbity. Until the day comes when I'll watch these city lights fading in the rear view mirror, I am left here to meekly grasp for inspiration, holding on with as much strength as these sleepless nights will grant me.
posted by Sweet Guenivere | 3:07 AM
7 Comments:
That Justin sounds like a really great.
Yeah, I agree. Justin sounds awesome.
(These posts would have seemed less self serving if you had allowed anonymous posts)
haha. I'll get right on that, Justin. And Justin.
Oh, that Justin isn't anything special. Just some Justin.
..and Justin.
My mother, who I believe, reads all of the blogs of people who comment on my blog, is goin to me furious when she sees your (false) claim that I am not anything special.
Am so.
Oh-- Justin! Sorry, I didn't recognize you. Of COURSE you're special. And no, I'm not being patronizing...
...Hi, Justin's Mom...
Wow, it looks like after that Justin guy commented on the inability to post anonymously, you got right on it.
That Justin guy must be incredible.
Look I am the first person who is not you or Justin to comment! Yeah for me!
Yeah, Anonymous, Justin is pretty damn incredible. I mean, he even has super powers.
Like the power to lose his ability to breathe at high altitudes...
Or the power to post anonymously!
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