I am happy tonite. Relatively. No, more than that. I am nearly completely happy. And there is no reason. There has not to be.
Earlier in the evening, I faintly remember convincing someone, among twirls of smoke, why they do not need a shrink. About why there should be no shrinks on our planet. And how we ourselves are capable of enormous grip over our minds. That temporary high, walked with me, as I got home. And looked at myself in the mirror.
I cannot draw that upper limit over how sad I could be. I am gaining the tires. All the time. Even right now. I am practically broke. Despite working my ass off. And I had my heart broken. Just a while ago. Or am I getting broken further, as I write this. And I am not hopeful of love. I am almost 25 and yet all I think about is me.
Whatever. I am getting all used to it. I love my big square meal I relish every night before snuggling into bed. I love the red and white stripes on the sandals I wear to work. I love to see the world in action, breathlessly moving on. I love the cheap tricks I use to steal myself away, for a while, every now and then.
I love my embroidered imaginations of the future. And I also love my humble acceptance that non of them are ever going to come true.
I am so getting used to being the person I was scared being of. And I am truly addicted to this new found complacency. At least for the remaining hours of this night.
Or it's just hormones. And concocted untruths. Undecipherable to my pee sized brain. Bleh. Couldn't care less.
Earlier in the evening, I faintly remember convincing someone, among twirls of smoke, why they do not need a shrink. About why there should be no shrinks on our planet. And how we ourselves are capable of enormous grip over our minds. That temporary high, walked with me, as I got home. And looked at myself in the mirror.
I cannot draw that upper limit over how sad I could be. I am gaining the tires. All the time. Even right now. I am practically broke. Despite working my ass off. And I had my heart broken. Just a while ago. Or am I getting broken further, as I write this. And I am not hopeful of love. I am almost 25 and yet all I think about is me.
Whatever. I am getting all used to it. I love my big square meal I relish every night before snuggling into bed. I love the red and white stripes on the sandals I wear to work. I love to see the world in action, breathlessly moving on. I love the cheap tricks I use to steal myself away, for a while, every now and then.
I love my embroidered imaginations of the future. And I also love my humble acceptance that non of them are ever going to come true.
I am so getting used to being the person I was scared being of. And I am truly addicted to this new found complacency. At least for the remaining hours of this night.
Or it's just hormones. And concocted untruths. Undecipherable to my pee sized brain. Bleh. Couldn't care less.
1 comment:
very personal post...seemed self therapeutic...still in the end the careless attitude gave it the global appeal ...
btw Pea* sized brain #typo
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