A Collection of Spectacles


Maybe I’m being foolish. I’m more unsure than I’d like to believe. I’m tired of dealing with everyone who doesn’t know what they want, although they flock in droves, self-appointed martyr for the uncertain. I’m so sullen, so upset with the way things are in this, but remember that there isn’t a prize to be collected where this area is concerned. If events fail to fall under an intelligent pattern, then there’s no one or nothing for me to be upset towards. Things simply are, they move and fall.  All the while it seems like I’m being told that to want anything will be disappointing. Pent-up passion will continue to tear, as long as it’s never returned in full. It’s not that I don’t understand, it’s just that it was halted for fear of what might come eventually, and that is the most unacceptable way to live. There’s nothing left for me to spread or wail over. I’ve had very dull moments alone, but in solidarity is where I spend the most time.

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“Ok. How I feel, I’ll try anything.”


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Very hard to do, but when facing things that are pleasant right now and over-thinking about them, immediately regretting when they may become unfavorable, I must make a promise to invite the possibly inevitable with everything I have. Then, after saying it, I have to laugh, observing the absurd ways in which I am afraid of the future. A human’s fear of untouchable omnipresence can be comforting and frightening.

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It’s hard to remove myself when I want this. Please, recognize the beauty of something in its immediate form. With my happiness in someone else’s grasp, I begin to wonder why people do this to themselves repeatedly.

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