Amidst these giants,

I feel wholely inadequate.
Every person I have conjured a mere replicate of some more successful character.
William, Elsie, Tom, Sophie, Susie, Mag, Danny, Moore, that father figure, that faceless mother, and that tragic boy.
Products of angst.
Language, my medium?
The brush to paint the colours of my mind?
It is a broken one.
Broken and dulled by the waters of a lake called Vainglory.
Cry now and understand why she left you.
Know now, why she sent that postcard.
Economy of expression?
You squandered it.
Penniless.
Guilty.
I scoff at you now.
No, not hopeless.
Go.
Go out and earn your keep.
Don't return until you might have enough to lure her back.
Tempt her to returning.
Try.
I dare you to.
Afterall, what else have you got to lose?

On being impulsive.

Am I impulsive? What constitutes being impulsive anyway? Is impulsive buying new objects to toss into an already large pile of unused things, just because I feel like it? Is being impulsive bad? Is it wasteful? Do I even deserve buying new things for myself? Why should I buy anything I don't need at all when I don't earn any money for my own? Why am I even bothering about this? What the hell, michael.

Prat. = Culture snob.

Goodness, I am bored. Help.

"You bloody son of a plodding cow! Canis filius!"

I have decided after not much debating and more of playing on whimsical notions:

I will not write anything I don't believe in now, for the time being. (except maybe in essays for school, et cetera, because I believe in passing my As).

This means that I might possibly be writing in this unfashionably boorish way for a while but really, it hardly seems alot more different from how I usually write. So it's no big hoo-har, right? Right?

One interesting word I learnt today: 'Canis filius' means son of a bitch in latin.

I can't edit my post's font with this iMac thing which irritates me dearly because I so do want to type out 'son of a bitch' in latin with italics.

Don't-give-the-world-a-shit day.

I don't get it. There's this willingness to begin writing in me right now but I don't seem to be able to write anything. Somewhere inside of me is a small person hollering, agonizing, and prancing about, imploring me to write something, anything. Don't know where to put my first word, first step, or pretty much anything else for that matter. Life is treating me fair but I am not playing my cards the way I should, emptying what little talent and time I have into sinkholes of whatever, all too happy to drain away everything I offer into the unfathomably deep abyss of the what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. Writing like this is as unglamorous as hell and bloody un-arty but I don't give a flying fuck because I can't be bloody bothered anymore. Actually, on some level, I realise the pretentiousness of almost everything I have ever written. About time also. There is no way I'll be able to do any good, preaching about something I don't believe in. I won't kid you, it's fun writing like this; might be trash but at least I'm enjoying it (you're still reading up to this point so I suppose you might be also; in that case - hah!).

You know, one thing I've always liked is coincidence. Coincidence never ever fails to entertain me, however trivial it might possibly be. I feel like and should talk more about my life experiences with the subject but I won't because I'm getting tired of writing and tired myself. I might read this next time and find out most shockingly (quelle surprise) how self-indulgent this post is but since today is don't-give-the-world-a-shit day, I will have quite pleasantly have myself excused. If you have suffered up to this point reading this poppycock, I can't say I'm sorry; it's nice to know you're reading anyway.

Hello beautiful stranger, are you a dreamer too?

You there,

Yes, you there with that grin.

Tell me something:

I don't even know you,

But why do I like you?

Psst,

Quietly now,

Are you a dreamer too?

After the Oldies.

Drained,

After we said what we had to:

That lonely conversation

An empty congratulation

A sincere commiseration.

While we lay back,

To relinquish a moment of quiet -

Between our open mouths,

We shared the same breath

And decided it almost felt better.

Speaking of this particular person,

Maybe all he/she ever wanted was to be appreciated. Didn't matter who were the ones who did: black, white, he, she, gay, straight, real, unreal, believer, non-believer. Someone, just anyone who didn't mind the cold and crusty cynic; or the snotty facade. The beleaguered flesh behind the iron veil. Would you show compassion to this tin-man/woman with a heart?

Would I?

I don't know.

Would you?

Today, i grow a little bit more.

Dream, dream, dream.

"Your boy is a dreamer." said the American.
I was two months and so was the world.

Today, i am merely seventeen inching my way to eighteen.

Each day I live but might not ever learn.

Today, having lived and learned,

I am thankful enough.

Sugar sweet silence.

Silence is deliciously simple.

Wouldn't you agree?