Don't ask. Things aren't getting any better. It's the same drill; now the monkey march has new masks. And I'm having this terrible thrill, that somewhere it'll end. It'll perhaps burst, and then there will be a million dragonflies of hope. It doesn't make sense. It shouldn't really, it was never meant to, if you ask again. And I've just come to come to think of it...it really doesn't.
\I believe, or I'd like to beileve, or maybe I just like think that I believe. As long as you think. We are actually seperated by seperated screens, and I with the sheer joy of writing in complete oblivion of sense -- and all the song and the dance -- and there you. The river laughter, the soft murmuring of trees and yellow skies... was it in paintings of Van Gogh or just ice creams. It makes sense, if you'd believe in anything. And I suppose we believe in more things than things we don't believe in. It's mathematics and nuclear combusion -- and a urinal. Pure mess. Extreme death, whatever catches your fancy. Whatever must, really. I just feel like spilling words and more words, and I'd just think that you like to keep reading. If you aren't then you must, and if you are then nothing changes.
I shouldn't have blamed the playwright for loss of faith last evening. It was brilliant, there was a good friend doing a darn good job. A sweet-shrill voiced girl doing a neat role, and everything followed. But it was the wine that I whined. Besides it was cold, and a no smokes. No really. I critiqued his play. To my mind, which struggled to find some coherence to this very incoherent settings.
But it was a good play -- after the play there was wine. But at the end, I guess I figured again as I met some peole that it's a bloody small world. It really is, however much I'd hate pulling that six degrees and that small (third?) world wonder to you -- it really is.
But that's not the point if you ask me why I write this, and like this. I don't think I have any good reason. I write and you read. Someone must get paid, someone really must -- and I'm here.
\I believe, or I'd like to beileve, or maybe I just like think that I believe. As long as you think. We are actually seperated by seperated screens, and I with the sheer joy of writing in complete oblivion of sense -- and all the song and the dance -- and there you. The river laughter, the soft murmuring of trees and yellow skies... was it in paintings of Van Gogh or just ice creams. It makes sense, if you'd believe in anything. And I suppose we believe in more things than things we don't believe in. It's mathematics and nuclear combusion -- and a urinal. Pure mess. Extreme death, whatever catches your fancy. Whatever must, really. I just feel like spilling words and more words, and I'd just think that you like to keep reading. If you aren't then you must, and if you are then nothing changes.
I shouldn't have blamed the playwright for loss of faith last evening. It was brilliant, there was a good friend doing a darn good job. A sweet-shrill voiced girl doing a neat role, and everything followed. But it was the wine that I whined. Besides it was cold, and a no smokes. No really. I critiqued his play. To my mind, which struggled to find some coherence to this very incoherent settings.
But it was a good play -- after the play there was wine. But at the end, I guess I figured again as I met some peole that it's a bloody small world. It really is, however much I'd hate pulling that six degrees and that small (third?) world wonder to you -- it really is.
But that's not the point if you ask me why I write this, and like this. I don't think I have any good reason. I write and you read. Someone must get paid, someone really must -- and I'm here.
Labels: Random
posted by jairaj at Wednesday, February 06, 2008
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