Monday, November 30, 2009
Watery and incapable of wishing to be something. As if joy might never be belonging to us but only escaping from us. Loving each other only because we should have loved before loving. Moving clumsily because clumsiness is our only beauty. Feeling special as though we were living in a song by The Style Council. Withering miserably. Failing feebly.
We are not emotional, we are conventional. We don't need a good reason, we only need to have need of one. But we will begin again, pretending to be changed. But knowing that we are still the same. That we are still telling lies the same way. And we will be really cool, true artists, and we will never think of ourselves as being useless. And we will seek to produce ever so many marvels for those wanting ever so much to be marvelled. We will say we are happy, and we will say so finally crying. Finally collapsing.