I am immobile. Grim. My thoughts boil, dissipate, scald on inquiry. I can not adjust my moods to the indulgence of either obligation or whim. So I stoop, incongruous with a sustainable architecture. Contradictions define me. I am exhausted and vehemently opposed to the clock’s covetous hands withdrawing my youthful diversions. My habits offend me and yet I am fondly and inconsolably dedicated to their exploitation. The most significant discovery I have made in the past few months is that I no longer want to be unhappy. I understand unhappiness. The alternative remains incomprehensible. My mouth is a monument, grief-stricken but no longer frequented by superstition. It dips well below the horizon. I frown mostly and I’ve found that the face really does assume the angles most held.
My hair has started to turn grey. Not grey precisely. The hairs are hysterically white. My grandmother had a head full…
View original post 668 more words