I want to overflow with ideas but usually burden myself with abstractions. I will grimace if you ask me to explain myself- so:
1.> The heart is a desert of many conceits and much deceit.
2.> Monotony has a strange grating sound of its own. Like a machine. Where are you, o li'l un of glitter and dream?
3.> The drama excited me, the farce fascinated. What drama and farce? Oh the everyday one of course. The cat in the hat, the cat out of the bag. That kittenish feline everyday purring. And those eyes! Green;wide-eyed. Wonder and hatred. Wondrous hatred. O miaow again.
4.> There are no more chocolates in the fridge now.
5.> I am going out for a kebab dinner. I wish I could go out for a boat-ride. Again. But this time almost-alone, a sort of dirge-ride... a swan-song to that which could never be. Incoherence for me always disguises a mind curiously alert and attuned. I know that which I am, inarticulately & beautifully coherent. A mirage of meaning.
Hyphenated words have almost fascinated me. What makes a pair? Why can't a red sock go with a yellow sock, or a pearl with a diamond? Hyphenated words mark a strange juncture of new meaning, a meaning that one must find (amidst much adversity). Beauty is a curious thing. I hyphenate compulsively. But I hate crosswords and sudoku. And all such compulsive activities, but that does not include heterosexual pairing.
I am afraid I have grown up too much now. I am afraid I see things too clearly. I wish I did not. For this renewed clarity is an indication of singularity( and no, not to be confused with being single in the city, which is also, of course, very appealing and charming)- and a mind that is sort of grasping. And when I grasp more than kebab, I feel that I am biting off more than I can chew.
Do you think I could ever read Symposium again without feeling pain? Or without feeling? Or do you think Plato never meant it that way? Or did he? Or did he not?
Wine or tea? I am afraid that I am a tea-totaller. And now, admit that that's a good one.