M attire has never changed much. Same old denims, semi faded shirt. I'm jaded. So jaded, that Aerosmith might think of re-writing the song.
Ironically, my physique has changed. I'm not sickly anymore. Not on the outside at least. The daily exercise routine helps. Sometimes, I look in the mirror. I seek resemblance to my previous self. There are many, but none when it comes to habits. It really surprises me when I count the number I've shrugged off, re modeled.
But the mind needs discourse. An outlet for ideas is much desired. Whenever I talk to people, I just talk. Conversations, have died. Talking has reduced itself to mere greetings. Ironic. I used to love conversing with people, with you. But now, I just talk, because I can talk. That is all. I don't share my thoughts. I don't seep in wisdom. My philosophies have strengthened themselves to the point beyond which I cannot curb them at will, like I used to.
My daily struggle with living in this wretched city has hit a new low. It has been a year long war. Of avoiding the places once frequented with you, of not reminding myself of what I had become, of yearning to be with you, of the eternal wait. Decay has set in. I have/had invested so much in this city. So much. *sigh* Sometimes, love, want, subconscious bias, are bad investments, I guess.
Happiness, in my case, comes with a stiff price tag. Also, with an interest. Where people start with a penny, I start with a debt.
My writing have taken a personal tone. That is because I don't have anything else to talk about anymore. Because, nothing else happens. No conversations, no lengthy discourses about the world, places, people, random stuff. I'm so blunt. So obtuse, sometimes. When someone says something, I just nod and acknowledge. I mean, what is left to say, when you know for a fact that, that individual isn't the one. The person has left, never to return. Reconciliation is impossible. All is in her hands. All.
Truffaut, Bergman, and Almodovar.
Ironically, my physique has changed. I'm not sickly anymore. Not on the outside at least. The daily exercise routine helps. Sometimes, I look in the mirror. I seek resemblance to my previous self. There are many, but none when it comes to habits. It really surprises me when I count the number I've shrugged off, re modeled.
But the mind needs discourse. An outlet for ideas is much desired. Whenever I talk to people, I just talk. Conversations, have died. Talking has reduced itself to mere greetings. Ironic. I used to love conversing with people, with you. But now, I just talk, because I can talk. That is all. I don't share my thoughts. I don't seep in wisdom. My philosophies have strengthened themselves to the point beyond which I cannot curb them at will, like I used to.
My daily struggle with living in this wretched city has hit a new low. It has been a year long war. Of avoiding the places once frequented with you, of not reminding myself of what I had become, of yearning to be with you, of the eternal wait. Decay has set in. I have/had invested so much in this city. So much. *sigh* Sometimes, love, want, subconscious bias, are bad investments, I guess.
Happiness, in my case, comes with a stiff price tag. Also, with an interest. Where people start with a penny, I start with a debt.
My writing have taken a personal tone. That is because I don't have anything else to talk about anymore. Because, nothing else happens. No conversations, no lengthy discourses about the world, places, people, random stuff. I'm so blunt. So obtuse, sometimes. When someone says something, I just nod and acknowledge. I mean, what is left to say, when you know for a fact that, that individual isn't the one. The person has left, never to return. Reconciliation is impossible. All is in her hands. All.
Truffaut, Bergman, and Almodovar.
