the curser blinks.
it's nothing new to anyone who wants to write, who thinks of writing.
i babble my beliefs, thoughts onto the microphone. i voice record myself, my secret thoughts that should only be spoken, never heard. my existence is at the mercy of salvaged dreams.
patricia highsmith is said to have preferred the company of animals to that of people and said, "My imagination functions much better when I don't have to speak to people." SPEAK to people, NOT seeing people or smelling people, or being around people, she said SPEAK to people. words, words, our easiest way to communicate with others. imagine a world in which people are speaking in gestures, facial expressions, languages based on the sense of touch and movement.
dare to dream, helyeona, dare. to. dream.
currently my skin is sinking into a feeling of incompleteness- i wish the world didn't focus so much on romantic love between one person and the other, specially a heterosexual one. "it is what sells," Disney would say, many movie producers would say, writers of books that are read only on flights and airports would say. when i was a child, i viewed it simply as a distraction from seeing the truth, experiencing the truth. i still have hope in people, some are irresistibly wonderful. i'm the one to be blamed. i'm the one who's not opening up enough, not looking enough, not searching the right places, too afraid to take a turn, too afraid of the unknown, fearing being unaccepted, fearing becoming an outcast and becoming a nobody.
i'm looking at the wrong places. at the wrong time. in the wrong people... i meant the mirror. the wrong mirror.
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