One is quite, quite alone. The process of growing up ensures that. It is a process that will eventually strip one of one’s fondest illusions. But one learns to adapt. (But at least, I am writing about being inconsistent, not incontinent, thank gawd for small mercies.) In adapting, one learns to appreciate the many, many ways in which a thing can be said. Which isn’t equivalent to appreciating the people who produce these fascinating observations out of their hats. Or erm, brains. I am made for simple, desultory conversation, I’ve come to realise. And increasingly, I find that I am unable to hold on to a train of thought long enough to sufficiently exhaust all of its possibilities. The mind is restless, Krishna.
I am uncomfortable in my skin at the best of times. But I haven’t been, with you. Thank you.
guess, that sums up the story of every1′s life.. at least u r brave enough to accept. most people, like myself, blissfully deny the truth.. when realization dawns, it tends to be worse..
and on a lighter vein, quite a clever bit of rhetoric.
Comment by solo — June 23, 2008 @ 12:00 am