subject: linguistics.
time: 10:35am
music: these words - natasha beddingfield.
mood: exhilirated.
... even when the truth is, i still have dreams of unused rhetoric spinning in blank intangibles. it is a non-sequitorial clause, a different domain; this feigned fantasy of the reality i want you to see. a repetition of the repetition of a constant; like maths and symmetrical equations just spinning around and around me. my life is becoming such. a whirling world.
but once in abit, i close these windows and in the fewest possible words i write with a desperate intensity, writing with images fleeting in tandem across this barren-ridden landscape. blank pages after blank pages; one after another, enrapt me in intoxicated happiness with the influx of unwritten words in my mind, just spinning in my wheel. unwritten to be written.
my secret garden i see only sometimes. it would be so much easier if i had a pen each time my mind whispers about this imagery, pretty. but i am always distracted when this happens. always uncalled for, my dial tone always engaged and i am always without a pen. if only i had a pen. if only i had a pen so i could mutilate non-sequitors unto our palms and live forever in mistaken fallacies. willfull destruction, we shall be hopelessly misplaced in a tangled fit of forfeited chorus and lost symphonies. some attempt to make our reality more justified, more eloquent, more redeemable by exchanging memories with eternity. thereafter, like the stain of time on a tired wall, the hands on the clock spiral outward to a state of never-ending existence. infinity.
if i could only harvest all these "what ifs", with a tinge of sunlight and a bunch of daisies - colours, so many of... and compose a chorus of symphony for our song. so we can play it over and over on our tape recorder and hope and hope that this milky way of memories we spin together will never ever disintergrate.
we shall be fallen stars in melted sulfur lost in the vast open sea.
.fallen.
>>>
i just cannot seem to get it right. i was so there and i was so sure i got it right this time. but yes. once again, this is a fluke. nowhere near the pretty pretty place i always seem to be able to conjure only only in times of monotony or at the brink of .. shhh! i'm spewing nonsense because i am bored and my patricia cornwell bk suddenly feels like a heavy-read. i am back to sq one; empty and completely devoid of colours. maybe because my heart and my mind have ran out of conflicts. i have absolutely nothing to be conflicted about which sucks because i'm jammed. stranded. well, cept for that fear of the unknown a.k.a - the future. so i suppose i'm normal. right? i mean, everyone's afraid of the future. i'm only human.
alright, i shall shut my trap n' go back to deciphering "cause of death" now. i realise i havent read some of her bks in the series.
toodles peoples.
