"Swing Lo, Oh Magellan"

Day after my 29th birthday, and despite the fact of having spent it entirely at the beach, not a lick of sunburn on my skinny-skin-skin. Most likely had something to do with the overcast weather, and the sun not even peeping out from behind its cover of clouds -- but I'd like to fancy folks a little charmed on their birthdays, too.

So many things going down. None of which I ever really get into here, I've noticed. Except peripherally; details at large in the ether. Why is it so much easier to stop writing than it is to stop talking, right when we're in the thick of it? Maybe sounds just carry more easily than fingertips? Maybe my fingers always feel a little on edge. Perched. If not waiting, then what?

The truth of the matter is that I may be developing a soft phobia to honesty. It's bad business, too, cuz how can you start a sentence with, "The truth of the matter is..." and avoid all the skepticism willing to rain down onto you upon earful of a self-professed phobia such as this one? Truth v. Honesty? Maybe they are not as complimentary of commentary as one would think/hope/expect. Maybe instead, one can be truly honest in her outpouring of deceit; or one may be exceptionally truthful without opening even a shred of a doorway, onto whatever she has in her to be honest about.

Ah well. C'est la vie, my dark and stormy love. C'est la vie.

-L (7/22/13)