One piece of this pure solid love I will give to you. If my heart is made out of paper then love will be swiftly displayed in the art of origami by the graceful fingers of those who have touched my life. They said that the choices you didn’t make and tried so hard to let go of live on in another scenario at the back of your head. With that in mind I’ve discarded scenarios not worth keeping but those little fragments that have had potential - I will keep, they will live on just by the sheer whim that even though the decision of choice wasn’t made, it will still have a beautiful ending.
You should set apart some time to think over who your true friends are because in the end, that’s all that’s going to be worth it. In simple truth, I think my ten fingers are enough to set the important ones and the others apart.
Been going to bed these past few nights with Fitzgerald, he’s quite the charming lover. And then this morning after being rudely awakened, I found that the bedsheets were lightly scented with what smelt like the musty pages of a really worn out book dog-eared beyond any hope of salvage; and then I turned on my side just to have Fitzgerald plaster his words on my face.
I know what you are learning to endure. There is nothing to be done. Just make sure nothing is wasted. Take notes. Remember it all every insult, every tear. Tattoo it inside of your mind. In life, knowledge of poisons is essential. I’ve told you, nobody becomes an artist unless they have to.
You come to many conclusions when you’ve not stepped out of a particular area for a consecutive number of days. You begin to feel that perhaps that area might be positioned for redemption because you have perceived something of which that it has that would be its saving grace.
In a very short snippet of my life, there will be one sentence screaming out to everyone who would hear, that our libraries in this country simply do not have enough Bukowski to go around. There are plenty of new editions of Hemingway, Vonnegut, Fitzgerald, Joyce, Salinger, Plath, Heller; BUT simply not enough Bukowski.
In another segment, one would find that I have had this recurring thought saying more than anything, I miss the voices of those who have ever made my heart race with uncontrollable speed. But these days I’m more skeptical; there remains a part of me that has hope, because where hope is, there it will always stay and it takes a whole damn lot to purge hope out completely; however, there is a nagging sense of acceptance in my mind that perhaps the someone I’m waiting for has gotten lost in a labyrinth of books (which should probably serve as the only reason to his/her getting lost), or perhaps also condemning themselves to a lifelong term of acceptance too. There will be many reasons. And scenarios.
The other day something happened and I promised myself that the next person who comes along would indulge together with me in conversation of the intellectual caliber one would aspire to. It made for a nice dream.
Finally I would love to start advertising to enlist someone who would go on regular book hunts with me as I have damned myself to walks alone holding tightly onto a notebook and a pencil just to take down observations deduced from staring intently at strangers and giving them names like a proud new parent. The last exciting thought that should also deserve some talking over would be the fact that the depth of misery I am soaked in is fluctuating at all times and if plotted on a graph, no sane theories would be arrived at and I would be deemed a lost case.
Was enjoying reading Emma by Jane Austen so much until I went to research on it and read too far ahead; now I know a part of the story that I wasn’t supposed to know until further ahead in the plot and I’m very annoyed with myself for being nosy
Emma is every bit the female fictional character that I like, her character is to die for, and every one of Austen’s characters paint a pretty nice picture. On a side note I was tempted today to print a picture of Daria’s face from The Complete Animated Series of Daria, paste it on my face and walk around as such, just to ensure that I have a consistent face accurate to my mood.
Look out the window from high up above at the city lights, what stories they must hold in every spark and what demise hidden in back alleys. I thought I would be done by now but I’m not and the path that lies ahead is longer than I first drew it out to be.