it has recently come to my attention my love of fiction in all it's manifestations, is possibly nothing more than egomania.
every book, every film, television or website is about me.
is a painting of my life as it is, was, or could have been. how i would be or may become given the right inscentive and opportunity.
in hopeful, ironic, or desolate ways, i consume in an ongoing search for someone who gets it.
and when one aspect of my life seems bent on overwhelming my every sense, it is the only thing i see no matter where i look. everywhere voices are echoing my current tempestuous heart.
am i jude? am i sue? arabella? her bitch ass husband i cant even be bothered to remember the name of? is it temptation, fate, or lust? does it matter? what is true?
a 200 year old book about fucking wessex farmpeople and here i am feeling pinned. my selfishness knows no bounds.
whatever way the wind blows in my current headcase, sue is just now on par with amy march.
No comments:
Post a Comment