the ghosts of your pleasure in contempt

and when we were liars, things were so seemless
when we were wired, the world was like a secret

The romantics were so full of themselves... they were the dreamers and the anti-empricalists who believed that they could live forever in their art. In a sense, it's true... their art, their poetry live on in memory and in moments never to be forgotten. It was never about the objects or people who were the root of inspiration... it was always about the process of that inspiration. One isn't supposed to write about the person they loved, but the process of loving... one isn't suppose to write about watching that sunset, but the process of getting up to see the sunset. To me, their paintings were never organic.. in fact, they were far from it. Their poetry isn't organic to me either... rather, so strict like the classic poets before them, but with a different focus. I'm just thinking... why draw a line? The romantics failed in the art for the very act of confining themselves to just writing about the processes of something inspirational... but I personally think the source of inspiration can be incorporated as well to be appreciated at its fullest.

I think abstraction does that quite well.

Guh Gosh, all that and I haven't prepared anything for that darned essay when I object to all the ideas already, lol. Oh dear. Oh, and I feel like something salty... it's crazy. I had these weird Japanese octopussy balls at Aberdeen today... so empty. But it was garnished with these crazy thinly-sliced woodchip like shavings (shallots?) that tasted so yummy. I feel like those right now... minus the balls. It tasted like burnt wood... I love it!

And lately, I've been feeling so tired. And I'm plagued with the feeling that something is amiss. And happiness is not a fish that you can catch? talking is just masturbation without the mess. I need to pick up old cds and listen to them again. I'm tempted to just knock on your door and tell you that everything's going to be wonderful again. The future is inevitable and time can't be paused because the gyre has already turned towards completing an incomplete circle. As a wise woman once said, "sometimes the hard part is being your own significant other, and realizing no one else in this world is significant because they're your other. Everyone can truly stand alone and that's beautiful."

I don't know what to say.

When I think of the past, I also think back to all the of "what ifs" I had the option of choosing. How different would life be then to now. Would I be the same person? It's like thinking of old crushes and just making the simply making a move. I dislike the analogy that all this is just a game and that we're just pawns on a board with a finite number of moves to make. I wonder what Bobby Fisher thinks. Maybe the romantics did have it right and the fine art of abstraction deviates too far from what is actually beautiful. So when I think of the future now, I just think of the finite number of moves that are possibly left... but just how far from the end of the game only Bobby Fisher really knows. What's your next move, m'dear?

Will you move to the rhythm of your heart and dance with me?