the things

the things i've thought of until this point have deserted me and i am like a dry stone, without any running thoughts left.
it's amazing how the attempt to write itself can be the be-all and then end-all of all writing or inspiration.
i'd be the worst person in the world to be a writer because i lack a vivid imagination. paint the sky a multitude of colours and i can spell how the sky was painted. insert a philosophical verse of crap or two, even, but hand me the paintbrush and i'll be dumbfounded.

***

reading about two halves of the self has made me go bonkers over someone having two selves. two detachable selves of oneself so that you can either exist in one self or another and forget totally about the other self. or perhaps not. we're but human, but human and being human, we're all fucking flawed to our annoyance.

***

looking back on this, i feel so uninspired and demoralized. we can never change others until we change ourselves. and there is always something to be changed about ourselves. and we cannot change ourselves until we really know ourselves. and how many of us really know ourselves? i don't.

***

i also know that every experience comes along with its' set of similarities and differences that differentiate it from another set of experiences for example and it's too much of a pity to lose out on anything that life has to offer. that doesn't mean that i want to be so richly indulgent in experiencing so much that i lose myself in the process.

***

she walks away unhurt because she forgets to unbuckle her seatbelt before the crash - i mean, how dumb is that? so remind me to unbuckle it.
but of course i'm not going to do that. i've not done enough crazy things in this lifetime to end it with a bang in some suicide biggie. if i die, actually i'd like it to be in some air crash. then i'd be on the list of missing passengers first and everyone will be sad. then they'll find scraps of my DNA somewhere around the wreckage of the plane some weeks after the crash. hope still hangs, a tiny almost invisible thread to my few friends and family. but then scraps of me are found and then i'm on the list of "the dead".
a celebrated life and people wil be asked about how i was. a small report on my life would satisfy me. No one speaks ill of "the dead", so in the papers, i'll be celebrated.

***

the end.