She had soft hands, soft skin, and soft arms. She had velvety feelings that were made hard by the harshness of reality.
She had ideas lovely and plenty. Ideas that were crushed under the weight of everything that isn't anything.
Money spent. Time spent. Money wasted. Time wasted. Imaginary currency, imaginary division of days.
Disillusion and subsequent confusion. A malaise.
Sadly and unfortunately she came to the following conclusion at too early of an age:
Being is only unbearable not because it is light but because it is bearable. To throw in chips, to hedge bets, would be an easier way out; to admit defeat would surely be tidier than playing constantly, and for eternity, with a losing hand. For a doomed team.
Scribbled in a diary backwards, like Leonardo da Vinci, so nobody could see her words. Whole diaries written underneath kitchen sinks with lemon juice ink so nobody could steal her thoughts or her dreams.
She was a winner in a loser's body. She was, actually, not even trying to compete.
And to the question, "what are you doing?" she had only one reply. To the question "what do you do, for a living?" she had only one response. To most questions involving "why?" she mostly smiled and sighed.
She was breaking out of an egg into a world comprised of a larger shell and she fell.
The world outside of her mind was a sword in perpetual threat of bursting her bubble. Inside of doors, inside of a room, inside a book, there was a freedom and a safety. Nobody could see. And nobody could judge or laugh, except for her.
She drew and painted her own picture. And life lived itself. Forever.
Not that long ago, in that not so distant past, she played in a one woman band and moonlighted as her own biggest fan.
She had soft hands, soft skin, and soft arms. She had very velvety feelings that were made hard by the harshness of reality.
She had ideas lovely and plenty. Ideas that were crushed under the weight of everything that isn't anything.
She had ideas lovely and plenty. Ideas that were crushed under the weight of everything that isn't anything.
Money spent. Time spent. Money wasted. Time wasted. Imaginary currency, imaginary division of days.
Disillusion and subsequent confusion. A malaise.
Sadly and unfortunately she came to the following conclusion at too early of an age:
Being is only unbearable not because it is light but because it is bearable. To throw in chips, to hedge bets, would be an easier way out; to admit defeat would surely be tidier than playing constantly, and for eternity, with a losing hand. For a doomed team.
Scribbled in a diary backwards, like Leonardo da Vinci, so nobody could see her words. Whole diaries written underneath kitchen sinks with lemon juice ink so nobody could steal her thoughts or her dreams.
She was a winner in a loser's body. She was, actually, not even trying to compete.
And to the question, "what are you doing?" she had only one reply. To the question "what do you do, for a living?" she had only one response. To most questions involving "why?" she mostly smiled and sighed.
She was breaking out of an egg into a world comprised of a larger shell and she fell.
The world outside of her mind was a sword in perpetual threat of bursting her bubble. Inside of doors, inside of a room, inside a book, there was a freedom and a safety. Nobody could see. And nobody could judge or laugh, except for her.
She drew and painted her own picture. And life lived itself. Forever.
Not that long ago, in that not so distant past, she played in a one woman band and moonlighted as her own biggest fan.
She had soft hands, soft skin, and soft arms. She had very velvety feelings that were made hard by the harshness of reality.
She had ideas lovely and plenty. Ideas that were crushed under the weight of everything that isn't anything.
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