on being gone…
I have been gone for months yet I have nor offer an explanation. Here is something completely unrelated I wrote last night, enjoy.
Outside my window it is dark. Two pear tress make the slightest tilt towards my toes, no dog barks in any courtyard, and the wind rests in its own desperate slumber. I don’t like nights like these. I fear that I have been conditioned to gag at the meager prospect of silence. My life is measured in the time I spend singing to the euphoric hum of my laptop and the start and end of a pointless video on baklava. The fact of the matter is, I won’t ever know how to properly make the filo of a baklava and I most certainly shall never understand why I am the way that I am. Why is it that silence upsets me so? I’m sure my paleolithic brethren can attest to the fact that silence once equated to peace and rest. And yet, as I try to snooze soundly, the cacophony of the world’s silence deafens me to the point of dreary restlessness. Perhaps it is part of my lovely little fear. My oh so very precious distaste in being left alone to my malevolent devices. Some point along the way of my maintaining a semi-normal voice and bleeding into my favorite jeans, I also decided that I needed a target for my frustrations. Now I’ve always been rather sensible, so while the prospect of blaming all those in my vicinity was prosperous, it simply did not align with my brilliant ayr for prudence and justice. However, it seems that I myself did not make the quota for those worth advocating for, and so I became my own target, my own enemy and lustful paramour to kiss and kill at the strike of twilight. I hated myself to the point of all enthralling narcissism that of which Aphrodite nor Endymion could bare to muster. Funny how it all goes, a self hating narcissist. A self hating narcissist who managed to divert a topic once focused on the flora and fauna of the night to the endless chronicles. of her mind’s mediocracy. Hip hip horray and har har to all the girls who love to hate themselves.
Nicolette
