You know what one does when one’s got a huge pile of half-baked entries in the Draft oven, all of very interesting topics (or so one thinks)? Well, my guess is that, one would leave those there and start afresh on a new, useless piece of scattered words. One without a backbone and serves definitely no purpose. Like this one.
Beauty is nothing other than the promise of happiness. Stendhal said that, didn’t he? But then is it really happiness I think I’m foreseeing? Or is it plainly a promise of such? And promises are there to be broken, are they not? Who can tell? Only time. Ah, cliché, cliché.
My stubborn sound card is working again. I’ve got “Heart of Glass” on loud, really loud. Blondie is so good! Need I even say that? “Once I had a love and it was a gas. Soon turned out as a pain in the ass!” Absolute GOLD! How much more er… backside pain will I have to suffer? One can’t help but wonder.
Illusion is a dangerous thing. Because you can’t tell at the time that it truly is just an illusion. And hindsight? Hindsight is a useless luxury. But at times, reality is no less perilous, if not even more so. Because you don’t believe it. It’s real, but you don’t feel it, you can’t sense it, your conscious doesn’t register it.
Because while on one hand, you’re hopelessly trying to get over a hopeless sense of hopelessness. On the other, hope is right there, in all its glory, a mere arm-length away, winking at you like it’s the most natural thing. Like it’s all over the whole world. Like it’s in your blood, your soul, your very being.
Until you realise, hope has a first name. It starts with F. (And I’m not going to swear.)