The outside is the closest thing I have to the other side right now. I have found that it is sometimes mirthful to take a walk in the park so I can take a step outside my mind. But the mirth which I find in that, or rather through that, is only temporary. So here I am, in a dark room, with an orange lava lamp and a more practical lamp powered on. Not sure why my blinds are closed when the sky is black - though there are enough street lights to burn through the pane.
I am rather appalled at myself for writing such blatant fiction. Her Blue Eyes is a less personal piece than I would normally write. It just sits on the page and looks rather lifeless. Not to say that my more personal writings evoke life, but to say that my individual existence evokes me to write. You know, I think I like feeling! It could very well be that I feel more than I think. My results from the Myers-Briggs personality test revealed that I am 1% more likely to act on feeling rather than thinking.
That last paragraph was rather void in terms of thought. No, it was not well written, it was not explained to the extent that it could have been. Let us just leave it though - it can not hurt us. It can not hurt us.
My head has been hurting today. My body is cold. But I did not physically injure my head today, and I am not naked. Absolution is absent on the earth.
She rarely writes to me, and the waiting seems arduous at times. Arduous is a word that is far too melodramatic to be used in this sense, but I cannot deny the clouds of impatience which weep over me. Gosh, I am so impatient. How long can I go without writing to her? Yes, I must wait.
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