I often wonder what it would be like to live with certainty. Can you ever really be certain? Certain, like your morning coffee or that cigarette for your one thousand and one problems.
Sentimentality is a central part of my personality. It is a cute but ultimately childish crunch. It's not quite a strong enough sedater to the morning paper - one cannot watch enough puppy videos to negate the understanding that we are fucked - but it is to me what I imagine yoga may be to you. It doesn't change the details but it certainly makes them more palatable.
I often create my own metaphor, to suit the story I want to tell. When things are good, my story is good. Life has more grey than a metaphor will allow. Be weary of metaphors.
I'll write pieces from a song or a bunch of words that sound nice and find them scattered through out my books, my phone and my bags. 'Make sure that your aspirations are truly what you want. Few roads will leave you as empty as the ones that lead you nowhere' - I wrote this down recently, I can't remember where I heard it. It felt profound though.
I'm the kind of person who stands at the platform in the same spot every day, yet I despise routine. I always stare at the graffitied tunnels and wonder who would have the balls to write it there and how didn't they get caught, what are their names? I used to mistake jets for stars. I confused the buzzing of summer bugs with low-flying airplanes and would forget to cover myself with insect repellent all the while mum telling me to cover my mouth when I yawned. My skin dry from the sand and salt water against my skin with different shades of burnt red across my nose, dirt stained socks and the mistakes that lived in my threads. I felt apart of everything, the city, the moon, the man on the moon with his velvet dinner jacket.
My mind is like an ambiguous teenager with way too many pets. Experimenting and embracing the unknown. Fearless to the point of possible self destruction living only for now without any regard for tomorrow. Roaring music plays while the sound of silence remains. A stubborn and passionate risk-taker screaming at the top of its lungs, throwing tantrums until the army screeches to be home before midnight. It's wrong more than half the time, but that's why it's so alluring.
Where is she?