I am now just shamelessly promoting my YouTube channel.
Anyways, how's your week going?
Like I’ve said, I’m really not that interesting.
Days are the same. Days blend. I can measure the mundanity out by what Big Trouble I had or what book I was reading. But here, for posterity, I’ll try listing it through:
School. Dark-sky drives to the institution and back. There’s not much to say about that.
Work. I can do a lot of that, most weeks. Feet like rocks for the build-up, tumble-down savings I’ve managed to muster. Work after school and on the weekends. I don’t work every day.
Books. My great sustenance. This whole existence is so easily pacified by Vonnegut and an iced coffee. I have a paperback in my backpack, purse, and car. It’s my stubborn will to create something material that I keep and display every book I’ve ever consumed. Of course I point out my titles.
I guess, if you’re wondering, I write things, too.
But I get my breakouts, sometimes. I’ll be walking to my car after an aching shift or eating outside when I catch a breeze under a pink air and simply be in love. God, that is what I love-atmosphere. No Romeo could ever sweep me up from it.
To some greater extent, that is why I live. I smile at the drivel and continue on because I know, know well, the great common pleasures of the Earth. Of her fragile blossoms, of her cool tears. These fragments of truth have lived a thousand times over, and will just as starkly be reborn again.
And, I think, so will we.
Days are the same. Days blend. I can measure the mundanity out by what Big Trouble I had or what book I was reading. But here, for posterity, I’ll try listing it through:
School. Dark-sky drives to the institution and back. There’s not much to say about that.
Work. I can do a lot of that, most weeks. Feet like rocks for the build-up, tumble-down savings I’ve managed to muster. Work after school and on the weekends. I don’t work every day.
Books. My great sustenance. This whole existence is so easily pacified by Vonnegut and an iced coffee. I have a paperback in my backpack, purse, and car. It’s my stubborn will to create something material that I keep and display every book I’ve ever consumed. Of course I point out my titles.
I guess, if you’re wondering, I write things, too.
But I get my breakouts, sometimes. I’ll be walking to my car after an aching shift or eating outside when I catch a breeze under a pink air and simply be in love. God, that is what I love-atmosphere. No Romeo could ever sweep me up from it.
To some greater extent, that is why I live. I smile at the drivel and continue on because I know, know well, the great common pleasures of the Earth. Of her fragile blossoms, of her cool tears. These fragments of truth have lived a thousand times over, and will just as starkly be reborn again.
And, I think, so will we.
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