This surrogate life, that I live, tells me I’m not to live it, this isn’t my life. I watch as raindrops fall down in slow motion onto the ground, into their personal little puddles, and wonder where my personal puddle is. Has it dried up or did it not exist in the first place?
The raindrops are fortunate; they have somewhere to be, a place where they can return to their form. No wonder they do their sanguine dance with such flamboyance. Enthralling us all. They know their personal puddle awaits them.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Search for my puddle
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That is unfortunate I tell you. What about the coffee stain, that got there by chance?
ReplyDeleteBy itself, and it never would've thought it would get there.
Go light one.
Nothing happens by chance, the coffee stain must be a part of some legacy, it just HAD to be there.
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