Monday, September 12, 2005
Dear Diary.
Music: Chick Habit (oh yes, Peter, I stole it from you, oh yes)
Stomach: Gluttoned with mediocre sushi
Thinking in: French (although never ever learned the language). It’s the music.
Marital status: Dreaming of becoming an 80-year-old spinster with 102 cats
Hand check: On the keyboard
I’m here but not here. A gauze veils over the cornea, creating a curtain between the outside world and the mind. Hibernation. Shut-down. You many now turn off your computer. A slow, painless death.
I could care less of the physical world – the soul has its own pathos, making a rift between the mind and body: like day-old grease with lard sinking at the bottom and a pool of oil drifting at top.
I need to feel alive. I’m happy but not exhilarated. Placid contentment is killing me – yes, Lester Burnham. I’m waiting for that breath of fresh air after holding my breath underwater till the last wind.
Oh well. Que sera sera...
Stomach: Gluttoned with mediocre sushi
Thinking in: French (although never ever learned the language). It’s the music.
Marital status: Dreaming of becoming an 80-year-old spinster with 102 cats
Hand check: On the keyboard
I’m here but not here. A gauze veils over the cornea, creating a curtain between the outside world and the mind. Hibernation. Shut-down. You many now turn off your computer. A slow, painless death.
I could care less of the physical world – the soul has its own pathos, making a rift between the mind and body: like day-old grease with lard sinking at the bottom and a pool of oil drifting at top.
I need to feel alive. I’m happy but not exhilarated. Placid contentment is killing me – yes, Lester Burnham. I’m waiting for that breath of fresh air after holding my breath underwater till the last wind.
Oh well. Que sera sera...
// posted by sakit @ 11:21 AM 
