i fiddle here alone with a fragment of my own consciousness, amids secular trees, iron railings and the soft indistinct voice of a mellow corner of nature, but, one can't help but notice - faintly, that's true -, the shrill high-pitched call of a car alarm going off somewhere in the distance. and so, my solitude is drained away by a single phone call, by the presence of them... i take comfort in delusion and fascinating insanity, the kind you surrender yourself to completely, with no remorse, no regard, no trouble, no idea, devoid of reality, of rationality into, what i call, my blissful ignorance. i loathe the very idea of what escaped my lips, deflected by the crisp watery surface in the dead of night, of how i broke and bended, of how i couldn't contain that monstrous lame excuse for a soul - i keep a heavy rusted brass lock on and tie up in chain on the recessed of a would-be conformity. i don't conform, you see, i never truly use my emotions to get what i want and i'm not even sure it would work if i tried to. it just gets so tiring at times to fight atrociously long never-to-be-won battles. i take this great pleasure in trying to achieve the impossible, for i see myself as maybe more than i am, giving myself credit for something i may never do, something unattainable, something only a fool might embrak on. the fool, the arlequin, the lovely, charming, mezmerising, beautiful, gripping, humorous, perfect little character i strip off when i'm here alone. i allow myself to be selfish on a piece of paper, i can articulate how much i hate whining people, the attention seekers, the extorsioners, the ones that have to constantly remind you of what they did for you, how much they love and suffer, how wonderful they are, how much credit they deserve for listening to you. i can only see this as something so selfish, it cannot stand to be put into words, something so inherently human. so despicable, so incumbersome, something you always fall for, because i do too...stupid of us, and you know it. if i tried explaining it you, if i actually had the guts to say it to your face - how it makes sence to me - you might agree, but, then again, i know you'd hate me for it - you can't really see it. that doesn't really count for anything, it won't matter, because things never actually change for me, i never change my feelings. you can read my thoughts, but i'd love it if you could x-ray my soul and weep at the sight of its fragile deformity.
