Let me say
I just feel blank.
Only a
piercing headache seems to be persistent enough to persuade me of the fact that
I still got some sort of life inside of me. The quality of fluffy, and
simultaneously blunt, of everything around me, has skyrocketed to a point that I’ve
settled to think of as bittersweet aloofness for the time being.
Detachment
has won me over without much resistance on my part. All is a circle.
I would
dare to claim that, by now, I have safely developed the ethyl ability of allowing
certain substances work their magic into my organism in the way a creek penetrates
the soil and reaches the depths, the roots of the trunk, for nurturing
purposes. In a smooth and loving fashion, knowing exactly what to do.
Which
reminds me I recently came across a poetic passage that asserted that the best
way of showing your fondness for someone consists of finding the cracks in
their souls and then pouring your love in them. It appears to come in as a handy
comparison.
Moist as I might
feel on the inside, my outside skin is determined to act waterproof. Oh it has
cracks alright, but it shows no intention of welcoming strange elements that
entail the risk of bringing back to life familiar wounds. It would rather
cannibalize itself until the moment comes.
We are in blossoming terms with each other.
