... there are so many thoughts, menus messy stuff, thoughts interspersed with sounds and lights flash past sordid hopes, doubts and hesitations in my mind.
It must say that when it comes to emotion, I do not control most things, I tend more towards nothing and ... hey, I'm so not alone! What crucial lack of originality.
Thinking that I am, 2:37 p.m. this afternoon (around) on a country road that takes me back from work listening to France Inter (and a writer who uses a speech terribly boring, hackneyed, on couple relationships etc. .): Why do people even a little intelligent have any problem they pay in written self-analysis? What a lack of originality.
We are all here, a diary, leaflets without a name, a blog delivered food to the blogosphere and so on, looking for support to tell our lives and we like to indulge in thinking we might be interested ... who?
Who could it well be interested to read the disappointments and proudly displayed maladaptive poor deeper who think they are? Well, similar. Others are busy tweaking the brain at once beautiful sentences incomprehensible (it is safer to do good when it disposes of the meaning) of dead fish hooks.
Just remember, Librisme, this pool of people with problems happy to meet them and itches their wounds, to see how we are alike, you think, is that your suffering could be stuck with mine, and where an immensely fragile puzzle pieces cramped badly, I love you, moi non plus, yes you, but ... vogue and the time and phases of excessive joy, and mass destruction ...
Via words and oh venerable virtual media.
And to think that this could be so beautiful ... but people are people with problems skimpy reluctant to ask the necessary questions when it is time. Better to ask any, any overlap, balancing force of crutches wavering until the day when everything collapses and where we thought he should have started at the other end. And we begin again? Ah, my fellow! We do not drown them enough.
0 comments:
Post a Comment