16 November 2006
He had toed the line. No, to the more orthodox, he had overstepped, like an athlete false starting at his first race. Each moment of being was so intense to him these days, and he cherished them like never before, but ironically, this particular instance, this memory, came back swift and fast, and haunted him, almost, passionately. It stuck like an adhesive on his cerebrum, finding its way to the vault where he always, to his chagrin, thought was empty as an abyss but now, to his dismay, where he found the immaterial wisp they called his conscience.
11:08 PM
14 November 2006
He contemplates his day, one in which, he reckons, he has achieved the most in a long time.
Today, imbued with the spirit of Woolf, he embarked on a long, lonely, yet lovely stroll home. The kiss of the wind on his face, swiftly followed by the sound of a snapping twig, the Angel of Insanity heightened his senses, Like a Synthetic Drug.
The vestibule door of his mind blasts open, no squeaking like that of Clarissa Dalloway's. Each moment now seems immensely intense. He reads about an intertextual reference. A whisper of alienation and isolation, barely audible. A touch of a female, delicate and loving, motherly and caring. Or was it merely a gesture so dictated by societal expectations, so bound by feminist stereotypes? The taste of a cake. Where is the outlet for creative expression?
Ah yes. The scent of roses. Yellow. No, were they red? Or perhaps white. Yes. There were still the flowers to buy. And the third tiger to hunt for. Yes. Each moment, each hour, each day begs a new question, sets a new task. We live our lives, we plod along, we perform functions as if God, or perhaps Fate, were the greatest Mathematician there ever was.
But what is it we cherish? Is it the people, is it the questions, is it these functions we execute, or is it, quite simply and beautifully, these Hours?
11:17 PM
11 November 2006
what a lark! what a plunge! For so it had always seemed to him..
how dearly he would cherish the kiss of a wave, chill and sharp, and yet (for a boy of seventeen as he was) refreshing and new. Feeling as he did, standing there at the open window, the little squeak of the hinges, which he could hear now, the doors burst open. A new beginning. A plunge. A room of one's own.
8:54 PM
07 November 2006
too bored. it's leading to obsession with my mac, my books and you.
11:35 PM
03 November 2006
i'm seriously broke. this is a reminder to myself that song owes me a fifty.
11:58 PM
