I honestly forgot I had this. It's been a while but circumstance brings me here one more time. Along with a need for an outlet. Though I know for a fact that I do not have a fan base like my good friend Michelangelo does, even if he is a horrendous blogger nowadays.
My last entry was rather depressive. It's a bit idiotic to say that I wasn't in such a good shape at that time. Luckily for me, seasons change. Old loves are reborn and new people come into my life.
I was told that journals are good for finding your voice... which could be true if I wasn't utterly distracted by the beauty behind the entire Phantom of the Opera soundtrack. My iTunes, my choice. I think it just fits with my idea of a lazy Sunday afternoon, even if it has been lazy not by choice. I don't like wasting days doing nothing but lounging, because as much as you want to make this seem otherwise, it really is a complete and utter waste of time to do nothing. Same goes for instant gratification. All you could ever end up with is nothing. It comes and goes as quickly as a whisper.
Tending to my garden the other day I couldn't help but wonder, when did we [humanity] turn into parasites? We walk around, looking for the first flower that catches our fancy. We want to satisfy our 'fix' within the first person that makes us feel physiologically challenged. We clamp unto it, feed like there's no tomorrow then separate and dance our way into another scenario of equally minded imbeciles.
Our world, our lives, our loves all share one common ingredient: they're all shallow. We expect it all to magically turn into a fairy tale as if wishing it would be enough. Yet we sleep around, betray, cheat, lie and generally use up the person until nothing is left. The same nothingness you were running away from.
We don't honor love. We don't take care of others so by default we slaughter our hearts. We don't tend to love. We cease to believe it even exists so our guilt doesn't taint the already soiled experiences that go hand in hand with promiscuity. A bit redundant, isn't it?
I am no saint. I never have been. I admit that more than once I've been tempted to fall into that particular abyss with shiny neon lights and watermelon flavored condoms. It's not worth it.
Never would I change the thrill and the simplest joy that fills my heart when my little bud blossoms into a beautiful flower after I've devoted myself to it's care. Knowing well enough that it's not forever makes it even more worth while.
My last entry was rather depressive. It's a bit idiotic to say that I wasn't in such a good shape at that time. Luckily for me, seasons change. Old loves are reborn and new people come into my life.
I was told that journals are good for finding your voice... which could be true if I wasn't utterly distracted by the beauty behind the entire Phantom of the Opera soundtrack. My iTunes, my choice. I think it just fits with my idea of a lazy Sunday afternoon, even if it has been lazy not by choice. I don't like wasting days doing nothing but lounging, because as much as you want to make this seem otherwise, it really is a complete and utter waste of time to do nothing. Same goes for instant gratification. All you could ever end up with is nothing. It comes and goes as quickly as a whisper.
Tending to my garden the other day I couldn't help but wonder, when did we [humanity] turn into parasites? We walk around, looking for the first flower that catches our fancy. We want to satisfy our 'fix' within the first person that makes us feel physiologically challenged. We clamp unto it, feed like there's no tomorrow then separate and dance our way into another scenario of equally minded imbeciles.
Our world, our lives, our loves all share one common ingredient: they're all shallow. We expect it all to magically turn into a fairy tale as if wishing it would be enough. Yet we sleep around, betray, cheat, lie and generally use up the person until nothing is left. The same nothingness you were running away from.
We don't honor love. We don't take care of others so by default we slaughter our hearts. We don't tend to love. We cease to believe it even exists so our guilt doesn't taint the already soiled experiences that go hand in hand with promiscuity. A bit redundant, isn't it?
I am no saint. I never have been. I admit that more than once I've been tempted to fall into that particular abyss with shiny neon lights and watermelon flavored condoms. It's not worth it.
Never would I change the thrill and the simplest joy that fills my heart when my little bud blossoms into a beautiful flower after I've devoted myself to it's care. Knowing well enough that it's not forever makes it even more worth while.
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