So little urge to write today, dreams and nightmares too vivid, Saturday too quiet, coughing up lungs in bed and desperately wishing for something to do only at the same time...
...very well aware of the chaos that such wishes engender and so I didn't dream them aloud.
Sunday the sky was high and in carefully-chosen-by-my-Princess sweater, I ventured out to the market, thin scarf wrapped about my neck just a little too daintily.
Dammit, someone mistook me for a GIRL. Oh wait.
Honesetly, I just wanted to keep my throat warm...
I've never put thought into the clothes I wear before. I wonder if this will push more important thoughts out of my mind, and how significant that is.
For every sweater I choose carefully in the morning, am I forgetting someone whose pain I've shared?
Am I becoming more superficial or more aware of aspects of daily life that I'd never understood before?
Last night philosophizing and self-important introspection was moot, Anna Maria and I drowning our tears for the looming warfront in a bad movie and good beer.
Last night we talked about boys and perfume and she helped me buy a pretty red beaded elastic for my hair.
I wonder, is my life losing meaning, or am I simply giving myself the chance to enjoy what fruits remain of the disaster that is modern society before I either fall prey to its mindlessness or pledge to destroy it entirely in a schizoid fit of fury.
cf, is it alright to enjoy being an aesthete on the weekends?
Is it alright to spend a little more time acting for me, and a little less time thinking about it?
Is it alright, that amidst all my SF philosophizing and irate intellectualizing, is it alright to perhaps... Plan for my own brighter future?
With, or without, everyone else's pain?
So much bullshit in my head but in the meantime, it's keeping me going.