Love is like cancer. It doesn't stop growing until it kills you. Not that I'm complaining.
I'm trying a new thing. It's supposed to be cathartic. My own personal Europa.
As a writer, I'm supposed to be the one creating and manipulating through words and images, yet these words seem to have more control over me than I do over them.
By the way, Europa exists only in my head. It's this idealistic vision of the way my life would be if I left school and moved to Europe, at least for a little while anyway. Maybe it's all just fleeting.
Joey says life is meaningless. Maybe, but we're all human (or are we dancer?). So I search for meaning amidst the emptiness, unlike Camus over there. Because without hope, I have nothing. Maybe I have nothing anyway.
A tree fell in a forest. There was no one there to hear it. It made a loud fucking sound.
Maybe now I can go to sleep.
P.S. I promise you that the next post will be funny and lighthearted...and maybe a little irreverent. SPOILER ALERT!!! There will be midgets and breasts and maybe a little drug use. Dammit, that sounds like the plot of In Bruges. Originality, too, is overrated.