Ah, it's been a long time. Long time no see, long time we'll see. I'm about to let go of all the restraints on these fingers for a while; it feels good to let go from time to time, don't y'all think? It makes me wonder what the hell I'm hiding from, actually. I know it makes no sense, but to me it does. A lot of things that make no sense to some people makes sense to me, it's just like I'm living on this parallel universe, where humanity does not count; it's like I've been an alien on this planet. Just like the Schulz's cartoon: and believe me, I try to make sense out of it every single day. Every passing day, every fleeting moment.
There goes my initial proposition, and here I am ranting once again; I suppose it's an inherent condition, a character flaw of mine if you will: I tend to complain, to whine just as much as your regular bitchin' girlfriend on her worst days. I'm not going to mention the "thing", lest I'll be accused of sexism and male bitchin', whatever. I'm no sexist, I'm no whatever, feel what you feel like, read what you feel like. There are no facts, only interpretations, or so I was told by that infamous, long dead moustache.
Well, what can you do when you don't belong to a place as worldwide as the whole planet? There ain't no other thing just as global as my uncomfortable feeling: I do possess the ability of feeling miserable wherever I go, whatever I do, wherever I follow. Mine is the honor of being the eternal people-dodger: I dodge people. It's a dying art, though. And it should be, or else we'd be already extinct, I suspect. Alas, it is a solitary task. But a necessary one, since I've been planning to end the line on me. No heirs shall have to endure this legacy of nothingness, this continuos madness that has got roots as deep as the old man's family goes back in time. It shall end right here on this lost one, on this lost soul, that shot himself with rock'n'roll.
Yes, pretty gloomy words for such a great day, it is Friday, it is the day that we'll all go away, at least for two days, only to come back, right as rain on next Monday.
Until the day that we'll all cease to be.
So is the life, so is the cycle, the ouroboros. No wonder why I've got mine permanently etched upon my back, upon my skin, upon my very soul, if there is indeed such a thing. I shall endure, I shall take no shortcuts: let life itself be my own personal hell. Let the Great Flaw Finder make its own solitary way through his existence. Then, when the glorious day arrives, when he'll finally leave us in peace, we'll sell all his rubbish, all his scribbles, all his lost memories and make a ton of money. To continue our lives, to endure our existence. To let go of the restraints, of the feelings, of the life itself.
Woe is me, for I've been wrong all my life, and I'll be wrong for the rest of my days. Thus it is written, thus it shall be, said the thing I read just yesterday, when I was supposed to be working here, encased in these four walls, in this rotting flesh.
And I'm tired. I'm tired of being sorry, of being wrong all the time. I'll just let it slide, I'll glide along. I'll have no more in a few days. In a few years. Whatever.
There goes my initial proposition, and here I am ranting once again; I suppose it's an inherent condition, a character flaw of mine if you will: I tend to complain, to whine just as much as your regular bitchin' girlfriend on her worst days. I'm not going to mention the "thing", lest I'll be accused of sexism and male bitchin', whatever. I'm no sexist, I'm no whatever, feel what you feel like, read what you feel like. There are no facts, only interpretations, or so I was told by that infamous, long dead moustache.
Well, what can you do when you don't belong to a place as worldwide as the whole planet? There ain't no other thing just as global as my uncomfortable feeling: I do possess the ability of feeling miserable wherever I go, whatever I do, wherever I follow. Mine is the honor of being the eternal people-dodger: I dodge people. It's a dying art, though. And it should be, or else we'd be already extinct, I suspect. Alas, it is a solitary task. But a necessary one, since I've been planning to end the line on me. No heirs shall have to endure this legacy of nothingness, this continuos madness that has got roots as deep as the old man's family goes back in time. It shall end right here on this lost one, on this lost soul, that shot himself with rock'n'roll.
Yes, pretty gloomy words for such a great day, it is Friday, it is the day that we'll all go away, at least for two days, only to come back, right as rain on next Monday.
Until the day that we'll all cease to be.
So is the life, so is the cycle, the ouroboros. No wonder why I've got mine permanently etched upon my back, upon my skin, upon my very soul, if there is indeed such a thing. I shall endure, I shall take no shortcuts: let life itself be my own personal hell. Let the Great Flaw Finder make its own solitary way through his existence. Then, when the glorious day arrives, when he'll finally leave us in peace, we'll sell all his rubbish, all his scribbles, all his lost memories and make a ton of money. To continue our lives, to endure our existence. To let go of the restraints, of the feelings, of the life itself.
Woe is me, for I've been wrong all my life, and I'll be wrong for the rest of my days. Thus it is written, thus it shall be, said the thing I read just yesterday, when I was supposed to be working here, encased in these four walls, in this rotting flesh.
And I'm tired. I'm tired of being sorry, of being wrong all the time. I'll just let it slide, I'll glide along. I'll have no more in a few days. In a few years. Whatever.
