subject: play pretend why not?
time: 12:10pm
music: i'm with you - avril lavigne
mood: fresh!

sometimes, i like to pretend i am an author in my pre-fame years and transform my room into a dingy motel in romantic Paris. my laptop really is my typewriter and i pretend to have a cigarette between my fingers. the ashtray is overflowing with last week's cancer sticks and my bed is still unmade (because i jumped out of bed at 2:23am with a paragraph i MUST document!). this morning,. i sit at my desk, unshowered and roll another clean sheet of paper into the typewriter. i look outside and the windows show me the Paris i have never seen before - buildings, monuments, and streets washed in the colour of rain. the city is beautiful, alive. and my narrator will fall in love over and over again.

over and over again.

***

sometimes, i like to pretend i am immortal and that i was going to live forever. then, i'd wish I could say there is something that is exciting forever. is there? i think not. in my 125 and a half years of life, i hear of no such thing. and i am more and more convinced that this is what it's all about - trying to keep up with our changing preferences and realizing that it's not obligations that is driving us to stay up for late-night phone calls but us.

but us.

***
sometimes, i like to pretend i was a traveller on a straight road to nowhere in particular with just a backpack of maps. i am an explorer, an adventurer. i am also a nomadic princess when i pass a decree that will claim a straight line "the greatest deceiver" of all. mathematicians insist it only moves in a fixed direction- infinitious. often, a line is a representation of a distance. but what is a person with boundless imagination such as i, to do with these intrusive lines? thoughtlessly, they're scattered across maps of the world - dividing and redividing, marking boundaries and fixing points of references. lines are trivial... only creasing paper unnecessarily.... whose duty is it to discover the hidden journey written between the lines? that is the journey i want to travel on - unmapped and unwritten, visible only through the mind's eye.

only through my mind's eye.

'where are you going, stranger?' he inquired.

'to a world recorded between the lines of other journeys. i am taking the unwritten path.', i said.

'but how will you get there?', he probed.

halt! i remained silent as i perused over his questions.
where am i going? where am i going?
a long moment passed before i decided that the imperative questions to be answered first, really are:
who am i?
and
what do i want?
spontaneity, but when you call, i ask you to call back.

listening, but when you ask too much, i curl into myself

freedom, but when i go away, i always kick myself.

maybe what i really want..
is more in myself than it is in you.
or more in your vision of what i can be.

today i am frail...like a teacup on the edge, just before it smashes into 10,000 pieces, into the ground 3 metres off the display-shelves. i have doll veins lined neatly against my occipital so that in my periphery, life is pretty perfect. so perfect pretty life is. he walks me along a shore of incoherences into our secret garden and swirls me, but carefully! because I am a teacup. porcelein and breakable. can you hear the stigma in our melody.. that only we can see? look at the numb dear, and slap it with your right hand - arent we so young in our never never land? look at us fade dear.. it only costed a few smiles. look what we've made dear! - our dreams inscribed in hopeless vacuity.

hopeless vacuity.