I wish there was some way to sensation without needing a presence that can only degrade an experience from its purity. It is unfair; the pristine moment will be relentlessly diluted only with self-awareness, worse yet, awareness of that moment's purity. These things cannot contribute to a beauty so beyond them and they seek for it to come down, into comprehension, and thus separate from divinity. I am guilty of these things. It is the injustice of existence that I can be no other way.
Still, here I sit in slight melancholy, indulging in the pensivity it creates and exploiting all that I would prefer to deny entirely. How can I be called 'hypocrite'? This eager irony is the reality we've come to trust. The question remains: when one becomes acclimated to the truth of living contradiction is it then that the two can agree? Or else has that one become a thing shifted? Perhaps my point has failed and I am a liar either way, though not ever because.
There is this for consolation: I find that sometimes I must pay close attention in order to consider the effect of my body language. It is not embodied yet, this suspicion of self, and seeing remains preferable to being seen.
Unless just the consequence of a crowded solitude.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (10/7/04)
![[Un]fortunate Philosophies](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dFQ82zKjN5s/S9Ypciuk6cI/AAAAAAAAAPE/6H-qgIQDbyM/S660/BlogPic2.jpg)
Oh but the wincing melodrama will have you yet.
I know a girl called Agitated. She deserves unceasingly to be soothed, as it is her purpose. There is another, her counterpart, and she is known as Distracted. We hold no hope for her, though of course she cannot know this.
And such is the weight of their existence.
The view from this angle seems to me so much like perfection that it must spill over into another's. Any lack of evidence for this can still be overlooked. The most loyal of questions, thus, remains, "How far?"
A veces i believe the world would find sudden supreme beauty if its whole stock of shoes vanished. The earth could be felt once more, as readily as ever. The tender feet of a person could unhide from him that the way to travel is slowly, so that again he would see.
And it will be as if the blinking has finally stopped.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (9/3/04)
And such is the weight of their existence.
The view from this angle seems to me so much like perfection that it must spill over into another's. Any lack of evidence for this can still be overlooked. The most loyal of questions, thus, remains, "How far?"
A veces i believe the world would find sudden supreme beauty if its whole stock of shoes vanished. The earth could be felt once more, as readily as ever. The tender feet of a person could unhide from him that the way to travel is slowly, so that again he would see.
And it will be as if the blinking has finally stopped.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (9/3/04)
I remain a silly girl.
I'm feeling more readily the threat of completion. It came to me on the wings of a moth.
Tonight i walked slowly so as to keep my eye on the concrete. I knew for real that i could be consummately satisfied to see nothing but the passing of the sidewalk for the remainder of my life. I had been wrong all along: there exists in me no need. I am not in waiting.
It seems sometimes so clear, and so clearly impossible to explain. Everything must be awed by all that it sees. I find my breath distracting in its stubborn constancy. It refuses my eyes.
In witness to my surroundings i know of God. If all that He's given to us is good, than that which is bad is ours alone. It's where i have an absence of fear. Still, as true as we are the creators of our terror, so have we become the makers of beauty. It is obvious even so close as in the irony of our dread of evil. Whatever can leave me damaged is enslaved by my will...
but none of this is mine to evince.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (8/22/04)
Tonight i walked slowly so as to keep my eye on the concrete. I knew for real that i could be consummately satisfied to see nothing but the passing of the sidewalk for the remainder of my life. I had been wrong all along: there exists in me no need. I am not in waiting.
It seems sometimes so clear, and so clearly impossible to explain. Everything must be awed by all that it sees. I find my breath distracting in its stubborn constancy. It refuses my eyes.
In witness to my surroundings i know of God. If all that He's given to us is good, than that which is bad is ours alone. It's where i have an absence of fear. Still, as true as we are the creators of our terror, so have we become the makers of beauty. It is obvious even so close as in the irony of our dread of evil. Whatever can leave me damaged is enslaved by my will...
but none of this is mine to evince.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (8/22/04)
Jessie Anne Grooming Services will hardly deliver.
An hour until my birthday. Two until i must go into work for manual labor. The latter takes up much more of my attention, though the former has claim on my concern.
I spent the majority of my day off today scouring the land for books bearing the name Evelyn Lau. The Chinese-Canadian writer has dropped into obscurity and proves time and again to be as elusive as my most brilliant of thoughts. She has recently become an obsession for I and a notable companion of mine, not least of which due to the ease at which the woman articulates the distinct trouble of obsession itself. She remains a figment to us, and will therefore be pursued again.
I saw a man last night as i walked my dog at 1 am. He rode a bike as aimlessly as i stumbled, with a stray gaze and a pipe between his lips. He turned to me and grinned as he rode past my expectations and i. I think he heard me singing.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (7/20/04)
I spent the majority of my day off today scouring the land for books bearing the name Evelyn Lau. The Chinese-Canadian writer has dropped into obscurity and proves time and again to be as elusive as my most brilliant of thoughts. She has recently become an obsession for I and a notable companion of mine, not least of which due to the ease at which the woman articulates the distinct trouble of obsession itself. She remains a figment to us, and will therefore be pursued again.
I saw a man last night as i walked my dog at 1 am. He rode a bike as aimlessly as i stumbled, with a stray gaze and a pipe between his lips. He turned to me and grinned as he rode past my expectations and i. I think he heard me singing.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (7/20/04)
As smoldering coals freeze beneath my feet.
Days ago i walked to the beach and someone spoke to me. He was a man that might have been homeless but just as easily not. He stood at the other side of the street and i approached him as i crossed.
A mile before i had picked up a piece of trash whose path i crossed and i had been holding it crumpled in my fingers for an awaiting trash can. I think this is why it happened; I think God wanted to acknowledge me.
My headphones were covering my ears so i didn't hear him at first, but as i increasingly smile at strangers to have their eyes for one moment, i saw his lips move. In a deliberate motion the music fled my ears.
'I said do you know how beautiful you are? Has anyone told you how beautiful you are? You really are, i just thought you should know.'
I told him my name and put my hand out for him to shake. He kissed it instead and told me his. I thanked him for saying such a thing and then i left. Behind him and at the edge of the beach i finally found a trash can.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (7/10/04)
A mile before i had picked up a piece of trash whose path i crossed and i had been holding it crumpled in my fingers for an awaiting trash can. I think this is why it happened; I think God wanted to acknowledge me.
My headphones were covering my ears so i didn't hear him at first, but as i increasingly smile at strangers to have their eyes for one moment, i saw his lips move. In a deliberate motion the music fled my ears.
'I said do you know how beautiful you are? Has anyone told you how beautiful you are? You really are, i just thought you should know.'
I told him my name and put my hand out for him to shake. He kissed it instead and told me his. I thanked him for saying such a thing and then i left. Behind him and at the edge of the beach i finally found a trash can.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (7/10/04)
4:32 am is way too something or other.
I should make sleep a constant. Though i won't.
If i could only make it a habit i might not succumb to such tempting imaginings at all, but as of yet it remains as one more thing escaping me.
But yes: tired i am. I really can't focus on anything else. Oh yeah...
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (7/3/04)
If i could only make it a habit i might not succumb to such tempting imaginings at all, but as of yet it remains as one more thing escaping me.
But yes: tired i am. I really can't focus on anything else. Oh yeah...
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (7/3/04)
Sorry, not drunk; just tired.
I avoid eye contact at all costs.
See, what's wrong with me is this: I lack any and every experience of the social kind so that the smallest thing feels so potentially intimate that i shrink from it. Meeting a person's eyes can send my heart into a frantic state. Not unpleasant, but definitely unreasonable.
It's amazing to me now that i've gotten used to a lack of human physical contact. I notice intensely when i'm brushed against, it happens so rarely. I find an unrivaled sweetness in the inconceivable image of a body next to mine. Only just touching.
I am lack. (Bah.)
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (7/2/04)
See, what's wrong with me is this: I lack any and every experience of the social kind so that the smallest thing feels so potentially intimate that i shrink from it. Meeting a person's eyes can send my heart into a frantic state. Not unpleasant, but definitely unreasonable.
It's amazing to me now that i've gotten used to a lack of human physical contact. I notice intensely when i'm brushed against, it happens so rarely. I find an unrivaled sweetness in the inconceivable image of a body next to mine. Only just touching.
I am lack. (Bah.)
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (7/2/04)
The continual blinking assures us that we are, indeed, still awake.
If there is something worth saying it is my desire to speak it here, alone. I'll continue to wait if only to sing my softness.
There are words for me, none of which can be said sans regret. They sound like scattered and distracted and worn. They sound like clarity and dreamt and adrift. They wonder if not looking means to be seen, or if they've become someone's secret. I don't even mind.
I want to be an anchor for someone. To be my own would be drowning.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (6/16/04)
There are words for me, none of which can be said sans regret. They sound like scattered and distracted and worn. They sound like clarity and dreamt and adrift. They wonder if not looking means to be seen, or if they've become someone's secret. I don't even mind.
I want to be an anchor for someone. To be my own would be drowning.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (6/16/04)
As if escape exists.
Of all the ghosts I think I'm most alone. I'm ravenous for someone else's breath. My best friend thinks of her easy beauties, "Whatever, i fake it well, that's all."
I smile, don't take it personally. I like the taste of my cracking lips, pulling apart. I watch from afar my failing sight barely staving off the cruel laughter, my own of course. Most loyal a mockery of hope.
I tell myself that there are things I need so as to give the waiting a purpose. Whatever, i'm good at faking it.
My very faith makes me a liar. Now I don't cry. "If I weren't here alone before, I am now." It's what I mention to fall into sleeplessness. Still it's alright.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (6/11/04)
I smile, don't take it personally. I like the taste of my cracking lips, pulling apart. I watch from afar my failing sight barely staving off the cruel laughter, my own of course. Most loyal a mockery of hope.
I tell myself that there are things I need so as to give the waiting a purpose. Whatever, i'm good at faking it.
My very faith makes me a liar. Now I don't cry. "If I weren't here alone before, I am now." It's what I mention to fall into sleeplessness. Still it's alright.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (6/11/04)
"A man said to the universe, 'Sir, I exist.'"
Yesterday a man came into my place of work. He was old, possibly senile, absolutely lonely. He wanted to talk philosophy under the guise of science.
Of course i work in retail and when a customer speaks of things irrelevant, they are not humored for long. Unfortunately (in the opinion of my manager) i'm a student of philosophy and can't always help myself from encouraging the direction of such conversation. He spoke of things familiar to me: the concept of beauty as opposed to art, the inexistence of so much, living for entertainment but pretending otherwise. Yet my agreement and encouragement of the things he said only seemed to perturb the man. It was as if i wasn't supposed to be there at all, and every time i spoke i startled him with the tenacity of my disobedience. (In other words, he seemed surprised to find me once again.)
The thing is, he wasn't fully aware of his surroundings. He spoke his truths as if he must and it didn't really matter who heard in the end. He had begun by talking to another employee and when that one excused himself the man kept talking. I walked by and he directed his flow of monologue to me. Considering both the interest i had in his words as well as my need to keep people from humility (which isn't always good), i stopped and listened. It was when i responded that i realized my own entertainment was not met with his: he was serious to the point of agitation.
By the time my manager finally got her way and steered the man out the door, i was almost no good. The whole display, the rationality of what he was saying steeped in the wrong time and place, therefore treated accordingly by those of us called "sane", had me feeling too vague to continue long in whatever the hell i had been doing. My manager saw this and had me take a break. I walked outside and sat in my car. The man had already vanished.
It was his desperation that had me. Most of what he said i agreed with (not all but almost) except that makes no difference. It was the fact that he had to say it, to anyone, and was compelled to wander around in search of another person. That was bad enough, especially with how easily i could become like him, but i found something to be worse: he had to be ignored. His words held truth; they were closer to reality than anything we were doing working at a stupid "art" store (and most of the conversation revolved around this, thereby invalidating the way i spent most of my time, which was of course a conclusion i had previously formed so it was (loosely) okay), profiting off the sad grope that is the populace seeking beauty large enough to fill their gaping void while we assure they never do and so keep their business in the future tense.
His desperation to show us. And me, already knowing...how is that alright? It was there in my car, curled up on the seat, the buckle bruising my hip and me intentionally not shifting, that i realized the tangibility of the distinct difficulty in our existence. The not knowing anything at all, except so clearly the denial of this.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (6/6/04)
Of course i work in retail and when a customer speaks of things irrelevant, they are not humored for long. Unfortunately (in the opinion of my manager) i'm a student of philosophy and can't always help myself from encouraging the direction of such conversation. He spoke of things familiar to me: the concept of beauty as opposed to art, the inexistence of so much, living for entertainment but pretending otherwise. Yet my agreement and encouragement of the things he said only seemed to perturb the man. It was as if i wasn't supposed to be there at all, and every time i spoke i startled him with the tenacity of my disobedience. (In other words, he seemed surprised to find me once again.)
The thing is, he wasn't fully aware of his surroundings. He spoke his truths as if he must and it didn't really matter who heard in the end. He had begun by talking to another employee and when that one excused himself the man kept talking. I walked by and he directed his flow of monologue to me. Considering both the interest i had in his words as well as my need to keep people from humility (which isn't always good), i stopped and listened. It was when i responded that i realized my own entertainment was not met with his: he was serious to the point of agitation.
By the time my manager finally got her way and steered the man out the door, i was almost no good. The whole display, the rationality of what he was saying steeped in the wrong time and place, therefore treated accordingly by those of us called "sane", had me feeling too vague to continue long in whatever the hell i had been doing. My manager saw this and had me take a break. I walked outside and sat in my car. The man had already vanished.
It was his desperation that had me. Most of what he said i agreed with (not all but almost) except that makes no difference. It was the fact that he had to say it, to anyone, and was compelled to wander around in search of another person. That was bad enough, especially with how easily i could become like him, but i found something to be worse: he had to be ignored. His words held truth; they were closer to reality than anything we were doing working at a stupid "art" store (and most of the conversation revolved around this, thereby invalidating the way i spent most of my time, which was of course a conclusion i had previously formed so it was (loosely) okay), profiting off the sad grope that is the populace seeking beauty large enough to fill their gaping void while we assure they never do and so keep their business in the future tense.
His desperation to show us. And me, already knowing...how is that alright? It was there in my car, curled up on the seat, the buckle bruising my hip and me intentionally not shifting, that i realized the tangibility of the distinct difficulty in our existence. The not knowing anything at all, except so clearly the denial of this.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (6/6/04)
Silver is just a coward's gray and i speak with words that mean nothing.
I wish i could say that nothing is better left unsaid but lies are not welcome here.
"Parece que en una mano mia cabes."
There are invisible things with weight undeniable. They can be an anchor as easily as an embraced lodestone. In the wake of my awe I stand before the push of a freezing draft, breathing. I think this is what love must feel like.
My pocket is getting heavy.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (6/1/04)
"Parece que en una mano mia cabes."
There are invisible things with weight undeniable. They can be an anchor as easily as an embraced lodestone. In the wake of my awe I stand before the push of a freezing draft, breathing. I think this is what love must feel like.
My pocket is getting heavy.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (6/1/04)
All brilliance is fickle and fleeting...apparently.
There are cracks in my skin. They chase each other along the heel of my foot.
I want to say it's where i stow something secretly beautiful, there in the crevices that save their grace for asphalt. I won't.
It's hard to find a rhythm now to these posts of mine because i've occasionally written them in the grips of a MOoD and here, later, I find a struggle between pretenses rather than safety within any one. I'm done explaining and i'm done sitting for minutes at a time searching for the most correct of words. This is not what i came here for.
Recall you previous posts? If there are an abundance of words rooted in "beauty", they doth speak of my obssession. I'd like to fully write it down here (or anywhere for that matter, don't you be gettin' premature on me) at some point because the definition haunts me with all of the vague nothings it seems to represent. The nothings that are worth dying for, and other things too. Well, i'm bound to be proven something eventually.
By the way, when a suicidal person tells you that she loves you so much that she'd willingly die for you, (say now, what made me think of this?) maybe you should ask her if it's you she lives for. It'd be swell to hear it without the sting of reprimand.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/29/04)
I want to say it's where i stow something secretly beautiful, there in the crevices that save their grace for asphalt. I won't.
It's hard to find a rhythm now to these posts of mine because i've occasionally written them in the grips of a MOoD and here, later, I find a struggle between pretenses rather than safety within any one. I'm done explaining and i'm done sitting for minutes at a time searching for the most correct of words. This is not what i came here for.
Recall you previous posts? If there are an abundance of words rooted in "beauty", they doth speak of my obssession. I'd like to fully write it down here (or anywhere for that matter, don't you be gettin' premature on me) at some point because the definition haunts me with all of the vague nothings it seems to represent. The nothings that are worth dying for, and other things too. Well, i'm bound to be proven something eventually.
By the way, when a suicidal person tells you that she loves you so much that she'd willingly die for you, (say now, what made me think of this?) maybe you should ask her if it's you she lives for. It'd be swell to hear it without the sting of reprimand.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/29/04)
I've wanted to leave since I got here.
There are ways to be discovered for fighting the emptiness that is working in retail. Here is one:
"and who knows the voluptuous delight of what is yet to come?" -Nietzche
This is written on a piece of receipt tape and crumpled up into a ball so that i can feel it in my pocket throughout the day. I've found that if you bring a beauty, indisputable in your mind, into solid form and let it graze your skin occasionally, you can retain a small portion of the joy that is the only sane reaction we have any hope left for.
There's nothing else to say right now. Actually this is a fallacy, not only are there things to say (always), but even I have things to say. I restrain myself now though, for even while i speak of sensible joy, it is anger that continues to fill my crevices. And that lingering emptiness that struggles perpetually towards sorrow. So I'm done.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/24/04)
"and who knows the voluptuous delight of what is yet to come?" -Nietzche
This is written on a piece of receipt tape and crumpled up into a ball so that i can feel it in my pocket throughout the day. I've found that if you bring a beauty, indisputable in your mind, into solid form and let it graze your skin occasionally, you can retain a small portion of the joy that is the only sane reaction we have any hope left for.
There's nothing else to say right now. Actually this is a fallacy, not only are there things to say (always), but even I have things to say. I restrain myself now though, for even while i speak of sensible joy, it is anger that continues to fill my crevices. And that lingering emptiness that struggles perpetually towards sorrow. So I'm done.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/24/04)
There's something about them Disheveled...
I don't like the idea of waiting. It's alright to sit and be still until something you've been expecting occurs, this is not of which i speak. I don't like the idea of waiting for life. I don't like this perpetual anticipation of a meaningful life to suddenly show up...lingering. It's a hideous way. That's all.
And the unfinished. And the disparate recurrence in me of relieved dissatisfaction. And the scattered pieces that must remain for they never did belong to one another.
There are countless things to be made better and an equal number of those things that are good and (still) await my admiration or at least my acknowledgement. Nevertheless my time. I know there are things that deserve my attention. But here i am too small for any of me to be enough. Maybe the night is always too old to escape.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/21/04)
And the unfinished. And the disparate recurrence in me of relieved dissatisfaction. And the scattered pieces that must remain for they never did belong to one another.
There are countless things to be made better and an equal number of those things that are good and (still) await my admiration or at least my acknowledgement. Nevertheless my time. I know there are things that deserve my attention. But here i am too small for any of me to be enough. Maybe the night is always too old to escape.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/21/04)
"Every time I have time to think I think of this."
My head doesn't contain sane thoughts. Maybe 'sane' isn't an accurate term. My thought process is not linear so much as rhythmic (as if the two were opposing concepts) so that there is constantly music taking up my attention. Which is good.
I learned today that my favorite defense mechanism of choice, namely the repression of any outward show of emotion, initiates memory loss. I did not know this. Now that i do and with the admittance of memory loss being my greatest fear if only because it is so present in my life, it seems i should quit it. I'll get back to you (me) on that one.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/18/04)
(And the quote is Ani Difranco. *Cloud Blood*)
I learned today that my favorite defense mechanism of choice, namely the repression of any outward show of emotion, initiates memory loss. I did not know this. Now that i do and with the admittance of memory loss being my greatest fear if only because it is so present in my life, it seems i should quit it. I'll get back to you (me) on that one.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/18/04)
(And the quote is Ani Difranco. *Cloud Blood*)
An abundant supply of self-delusion may not be better than nothing.
I couldn't tell you why I'm sitting here glaring at the screen as if there's anything to say. Something about the state I'm in has the word 'empty' pervading my thoughts. But I'm still here.
I have to go close my eyes now.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/17/04)
I have to go close my eyes now.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/17/04)
Except that when time finally waits for me i suppose i'll die.
So many things are bizarre. Everything. It's the strangest sensation to look around me at all the things i've always known so well and remain unable to convince myself that they're not absurd. I mean, where's my freakin' frame of reference? How can i be so sure that everything's ridiculous when this be the only thing i've ever known as real? Sigh.
And i know why i'm writing this. We're so beautiful.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/16/04)
And i know why i'm writing this. We're so beautiful.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/16/04)
Impulsive purchasing of vintage skirts will keep one standing.
I can't claim to be on top of the standard i set for myself at the moment in terms of my awareness. I'm tired.
I can say that i'm present just enough to concern myself with the fact that this is only my second entry here and i ought to be giving an accurate impression. I don't think that i am. Oh, oh, it's cuz i'm so tired. So it's okay. I forgive you.
My hands might be shaking a li'l bit, i'm not entirely positive. I suppose this may be the result of my eyes twitching or something. I'm not sure what quip would go well with this last. Whatever, the truth be on my side, Child.
My feet hurt from sprinting for twenty minutes on a treadmill last night barefoot. It was well worth it: the pain is swell. I'm sure it proves something, enfolds some truth. Maybe it's just that it proves that there's such thing as truth. I have no idea what i'm talking about. (No, unfortunately i can't use my borderline insomnia as an excuse as this be a perpetual state.)
Yeah.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/14/04)
I can say that i'm present just enough to concern myself with the fact that this is only my second entry here and i ought to be giving an accurate impression. I don't think that i am. Oh, oh, it's cuz i'm so tired. So it's okay. I forgive you.
My hands might be shaking a li'l bit, i'm not entirely positive. I suppose this may be the result of my eyes twitching or something. I'm not sure what quip would go well with this last. Whatever, the truth be on my side, Child.
My feet hurt from sprinting for twenty minutes on a treadmill last night barefoot. It was well worth it: the pain is swell. I'm sure it proves something, enfolds some truth. Maybe it's just that it proves that there's such thing as truth. I have no idea what i'm talking about. (No, unfortunately i can't use my borderline insomnia as an excuse as this be a perpetual state.)
Yeah.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/14/04)
Nope, not a fan of money. I'm a bad capitalist.
I'm sitting here, up at 1:38am (which is not unusual for me but tonight i've a sorry excuse as to why), doing things like creating crazy journal accounts randomly, and waiting for my damn paycheck to transfer automatically to my damn bank account so that i can transfer some damn money to quit being overdrawn (damnit). Unfortunately i've been LIED TO and it's still not there an hour and a half after it was supposed to be. Geez, Louise.
I'm pretty tired. (Every time i say that i think of "Forrest Gump." It is good. And it means that movie is in the back of my mind at all times.) I think i should stop typing right now and just go to bed. I'm waking up in less than three hours so I know i should go.
I've been working the graveyard shift at my work once a week lately. We unload the truck and since i work in a framing retail shop all of our merchandise is heavy, and we're always getting way too much of it. This here be the relevance: my hands are changing. They look strong now, an odd mixture with their relatively small size; my veins have become prominent. I can't stop looking at them as i type.
Hands to me are a fascination. I shake other people's hands for kicks. (Though i'm usually repentant at the occasional disconcerted expression, i've yet to change my ways.) I believe that the most beautiful part of the human body is the crevice the thumb bone creates when flexed. (It's prettier done than said.) I stare at them in all of their gesticulating wonder when animated people talk and must remind myself to make eye contact. They, to me, are a distraction. But since i couldn't tell you just what from, i see no reason to remedy the situation. I think the whole thing is pretty swell anyway.
I suppose i will fall down somewhere now, close my eyes and call it sleep.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/13/04)
I'm pretty tired. (Every time i say that i think of "Forrest Gump." It is good. And it means that movie is in the back of my mind at all times.) I think i should stop typing right now and just go to bed. I'm waking up in less than three hours so I know i should go.
I've been working the graveyard shift at my work once a week lately. We unload the truck and since i work in a framing retail shop all of our merchandise is heavy, and we're always getting way too much of it. This here be the relevance: my hands are changing. They look strong now, an odd mixture with their relatively small size; my veins have become prominent. I can't stop looking at them as i type.
Hands to me are a fascination. I shake other people's hands for kicks. (Though i'm usually repentant at the occasional disconcerted expression, i've yet to change my ways.) I believe that the most beautiful part of the human body is the crevice the thumb bone creates when flexed. (It's prettier done than said.) I stare at them in all of their gesticulating wonder when animated people talk and must remind myself to make eye contact. They, to me, are a distraction. But since i couldn't tell you just what from, i see no reason to remedy the situation. I think the whole thing is pretty swell anyway.
I suppose i will fall down somewhere now, close my eyes and call it sleep.
Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/13/04)
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