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24 January 2013 @ 07:02 pm
103.  
  i don't like to be demystified 

- although it does give me a certain sense of comfort, in a way that makes it possible for me to relax for the first time in what seems like a million years - a hundred lifetimes

-

i wish i was proficient enough at anything, any art form, whether it be photography, writing, playing the piano, to make sense of what i'm thinking the second i am thinking it, no delay, no blur that invariably comes as a natural consequence of passing time between actual thought and the verbalisation of said thought, 

or the other way around,

to make sense of what i am thinking before even i myself know what it means, to find out what i'm thinking - like joan didion does - 

i write and write and write and it feels as if i am running after my own mind


the naive assumption that i could forever control
what you know
about me

only a shadow 
of sorts

but here i am
no mystery about morning hair, pale face, the wish to be loved by every living soul in the universe,
the impatience, the glorification of my own faults to not have to change anything ever, 
i demand change
yet am too stubborn
to ever really change anything about me, my perception of things

quite frequently i find myself thinking a myriad of fuck yous
find myself having to resist the urge to get up and leave and run
then i break out laughing imagining myself zig-zagging off somewhere
and i stay put