In My Head
I’m really too lazy to describe myself to the world. I’m not going to meet any of you anyway, so why bother telling you all my likes and dislikes, moods and sins? So I’ll just treat whoever bothered to read this page with a short, mediocre diatribe I wrote for my friendster ‘about me’ section many years ago, at a point in my life when I could throw myself into fits of depression just for the fun of it. I’m too lazy for such serious ventures these days. So here goes:
Treading through life at a sluggish pace while the world flows past me, swallowing me in a whirlpool of frenetic tension, I dream of Autumn winds, and am comforted in it’s immaterial softness. My height places me above most other inhabitants of this furious society, and their idiocy never fails to amuse me. Mine, however, rips my innards apart each time I recall it. Blood flows through my veins, I learned this in Biology. Otherwise I’d have continued believing that I was somehow pulsating through hollow tubes in this shell of a body, screaming orders and curses, providing it with the energy to move, hence allowing me a measure of mobility, but hardly ever does the world see the inner side, except when the system crashes, and that would not be a comfortable sight for anyone nearby. Like a wisp of elfin’ magic, the ice surrounding my inner core melts, and its million broken shards pierce my sheltered soul. The body is accustomed to warmth, and yet the paranoid mind deems it false and apocryphal. Like a gamine lass the mind induces the body to relax, to flow with nature, and it always agrees. Time treats them both kindly. Weather doesn’t. Emotions are twisted by heat, and cold brings suffering. Dreams penetrate the consciousness, bringing shadows of joy, reigning in the defiance of the corpulent masses of brain cells. Stymie their discourse! Ecstasy envelops the dreamer, and daffodils entrance the senses. A field of lavender sprouts forth in the bleak mind, negating paragraph upon paragraph of non-existent gloom. It is inconsequential that the effects are temporary. Like a chance meeting with fate, it enervates one to live with zest and vigour. Fly towards me, screams the crowd, hoping to breach the core of Me. Retreat is not an option for the bereaved; it never was. Clowns called Pierre, dogs named after fruits. Fluctuations in frustration delight everyone. Ramblings of a bored individual. I hope you don’t ever understand this. Because neither do I… so humour me.
There. Happy? Confused? Satisfied?
Good. Now get a move on.