Embrace, A Cacophonous Murmur

It was a joyous occasion marred only by sentimentality. Everything was going according to an unprecedented plan, an instinctive flow, and then introduced into a world of vivid colours. I was smack-dabbed in the middle of it all, a wayward mobile leading an unknown course. There I found love once more, not once, but twice, but three times. Still I sense there were more to it than just that. But for now I have to settle with just the melancholy, the bitterness of having none at all.

Three loves in one whole day... what a strange sensation. Fuck me for assuming but there it is. For a whole life of waiting this sure feels like a heavy burden to reconsider. I am not alpha nor am I clinquant. I am but a vessel of pure mediocrity and/or suckage. Or maybe I need to work more on my insecurities. Maybe I do, maybe I don't.

Too much of Nietzsche hurts, too little of sunshine burns.

I saw opportunity in the eyes of another. Freddie, is this the real life? Or is this just fantasy? Or is this just stupid serendipity whispering at my thoughts, ejaculating its white ooze all over my mind? No more alcohol for awhile, not even Christmas, nor New Year. But I have to remember the conditions. I must persevere. I must get the answers from that night, whether or not it meant something. Tell me, does the tattletale truth ever hinder somebody else's blanket of night lies? Surely not. That's what's amazing about lies, about pretensions, about being someone else you're not. That's why I'm taking up physical theatre, am I not?

My sleeping mind, which has a heart of its own, is half-awakened now, lethargic from all the boredom and mediocrities encircling all around. I've found something I wouldn't have found a year ago. It is a terrible fate, one whose murderous desires coincide with my belief of nothingness. And Louis would make it clear to me that beliefs are just that: beliefs. Nothing else, nothing more. People love to pretend they feel something for their beliefs. Not me. They're there to keep me warm but it helps so little. Unless an extremist walks into a busy edifice in the middle of Holborn and boom-booms it apart.

So now my priorities lie elsewhere once again. Like I always do, like I always fail to do, that is.

The night belongs to us.