bildungsroman
i think I've come to terms with it... they... them... all of those...
maybe it's all the information in the air (aren't you afraid you'll choke on a wireless e-mail from a neighbour one day?!) - we are dirty, polluted, a sad pathetic excuse for all the so-called grand gestures...
maybe it comes down to the exponential growth of apparatuses that deviate my truly honest, raw emotions and open opinions
maybe it's in all the jingles one hears everywhere these days
maybe (just maybe) it comes from the desire to find one self again and sticking with that character, stick a needle in my eye, cross my heart and hope to die
but for sure, it is the realization that this is it. This is everything. I (nor anyone for that matter) can't say "things aren't what they're supposed to be". They are ALWAYS what they are supposed to be.
we may like them or not
but they're always a (fucked up) fact
hence the struggle, finding the veil, lifting it ever so slightly - just enough to assure the light.
i don't see myself no more as ever-engaging. I don't see myself no less as clever.
adaptation arises
when the sun disappears behind the last balcony through the city horizon
a heavy, yet thoughtful breathing ensures
and the feeling of certainty you can only achieve when you finally accept there is nothing for sure. Ever.
i will build my own world, I will protect myself from this informational-ever-so-present-mind-numbing air of the third decade that has lasted for the previous hundreds of years...
