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So Apropos
Saw death on a sunny snowFor every life, forego the parable. Seek the light, my knees are cold. (Running home, running home) Go find another lover; To bring and- to string along. With all your lies, you're still very lovable. I toured the light, so many foreign roads For Emma, forever ago. |
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about art.
Art is what you can get away with.
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affiliates
bridget.carine. divinia. jieyang. gabby. michelle. monica. muk. patricia. sara. wendy. PLAYLIST twitter
credits
Design: doughnutcrazyIcon: morphine_kissed Do credit accordingly if you changed the icon. |
writers' lucidity
There are times when I am not sure why I blog in the first place. I always write as if I have an anonymous audience, like a character in a novel speaking out in first person. I write as if my life is boring and uninteresting, yet secretly believing that it is actually a big story, one that people would pay ten bucks to take off a shelf and bring home. Maybe it has a pretty cover, or maybe it has an interesting title. I'm sure the synopsis isn't enough to draw people's attention. Story of a teenage girl. Living in a lonely world. She took the midnight train going anywhere. Sorry, just had to do that. Truth is, I write like this because I have these moments when I feel very lucid, like I'm taking a step back and looking at my life. I look at the circles of people that have come in and out of my life, at the moments of my life when I'm glad that I'm alive, but at that point of time I'm not. Its like keeping a track record of what has happened, people I love, people I notice, people who care about me, people I need to talk to more. There are these lists of people in my head that I wish I could reach out to, then there are those whose heads I want to get into, to find out more about - what makes them tick, how they think, how they live life. People, somehow, drive my life. And the people I never talk to will always leave my life incomplete. Which is such an irony because I'm not very sociable. Some american guy tried to start a conversation with me on the bus (making a funny joke about the american embassy and macdonalds) and I froze. I think growing up here does that to you. I think these lucid moments are the cause of my insomnia. Day is when I am most conscious of my surroundings, when I am able to act more and do more. But night is when I enjoy being on my own to think, like making stories in my head, imagining how the plainest people could have the most spectacular lives. Maybe I should start writing again. I feel like I miss it. But where to start? |