lundi, 100.

I often find myself with too much time on my hands, trying to make sense of the things I encounter on a daily basis. I'm ground down to the bone from stress and other constraints and triggers, the need to strive for some sort of ideal that I don't believe exists. This time of year tends to bring out the worst in people. We carry along in our lives from day to day trying to construct something perfect, something wonderful... questing after happiness or whatever idea resembles the meaning of that word. We are, however, constantly vulnerable to and at risk of coming into blunt contact with a destroyer. At any instance this world we've drafted in our minds can be torn to shreds, ripped apart -- and there we are, shaking and afraid like children left to pick up the pieces and put it back together again, risking nothing but a reoccurrance... and so we find solace in the orchestration of a perfect song, a beautiful melody riddled deep with touching lyrics that hint at a life that exists only within speakers... a painting, vivid and bright, of a world unlike our very own... in a movie or play whose scenes are really just figments of another fucked up person's imagination. Things like this stand as confessions. We openly admit that our own lives are filled with garbage and so we must create an alternate plane to temporarily exist in. Who are we trying to impress? What are we trying to hide? I don't even want perfection, I'd settle for things being just so.