Y'know, the second picture would've been perfect if I wasn't holding the camera phone so conspicuously. I need a photographer. My dreams have been bleaching my reality lately. It's frightening. I don't see monkeys jumping around the dining hall, but it feels as if something ethereal is present wherever I go. So I went ahead and drank two cups of coffee earlier this morning. Never felt better. Never tasted better, I should say.
Today's also the first after many days when I'm anxious over my age. I keep thinking that my youth is slipping away from my fingers. Maybe dripping would be a better word since age really flows with time, and you can't grasp it with your bare hands. I need a thermos flask for that. I guess everybody else just uses facebook, a catalogue to catalogue... youth.
My "self" is split into two parts over this: the dominant realist and the recessive, yet highly pervasive, idealist. I have a lot to be thankful for and at the risk of being called a narcissist, a lot of achievements, but I keep thinking it's not enough. How/what/when then, is enough? To dwell on this matter would mean writing a highly egocentric autobiography, so I shall try to summarize the whole shabang:
Expectation is a single plane of mirror used as a dining table. On top of this table, therein lies an assortment of highly fragile, yet exceedingly beautiful dinnerware. The food that fills the cavity of these instruments are enticing too. All of these, on the table, represent the trinkets and trophies we've collected in life. What would happen, if a single crack starts to spread across the table, I wonder? How does it feel, to be standing atop a frozen lake, and feel the thin ice crack underneath you, knowing a single twitch of the muscle could mean an icy death, or a shot at survival?
...
Wow, talk about being emo. Alright, I feel so much better now. Back to work.
Oh by the way, gorgeous weather outside today. Makes me wonder why I'm still lingering in my room.
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