rambleriot
jolene needs a focal point.
Like how undigested fibres ends up in the toilet bowl, unprocessed nonsense gets discharged here.
Do you get, do you get a little kick
out of being small-minded?
You want to be like your father
It’s approval you’re after
Well that’s not how you’ll find it
Fuck You (GWB); Lily Allen
dialogue
jack-in-a-box press it pops
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Welcome to Earth, Alien.
"And I like large parties. They're so intimate. At small parties there isn't any privacy."
So said Jordan, in The Great Gatsby.
If the world was a giant party.
My favourite thing to do this holidays was to walk to Subway at West Mall and chomp on a veggie delight and watch the crowd go by. All by myself, I'm a big girl now. Okay, so on this one occassion I was reading Emily Bronte's Poems of Solitude while smelling my freshly toasted wheat bread, when I suddenly experienced an epiphany.
Because there are so many people going on with their own lives you get privacy, enjoying the time crawl by while staring through the glass windows, and taking another bite of fibre-goodness. Even when you take an extra big bite, the contents spill, and honey mustard sauce gets onto your cheek, nobody saw. You wouldn't mind. Nobody noticed, nobody cared.
And you're free to do whatever you want without being subjected to the supervision of others.
Keeping to yourself.
Crawled back into your cosy shell, hermit crab.
After a month long of solitude, going back to close proximity with forty nine others was so overwhelming I forgot how to communicate.
Like how neurones in my left brain has degenerated to render me unable to do math, I have forgotten how to, well, talk. Responses take their own sweet time to connect my brain to my mouth and for the gazillionth time today I felt like a moron. Stone, blank stare, stone, another programmed movement. I feel strange. I have all these words in my head, but they don't manage to get out of my mouth. By the end of the day, even though I hardly broke a sweat, I was so drained out by trying not to be drained out.
What a recluse, you might say.
Shrugs.
How awkward, how awfully self-conscious, how difficult it is, when I can easily smile at strangers and banter with people I don't know.
The irony.
Previously
November 2008
December 2008
March 2009
CREDITS
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