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alasanonOn some perfect days some people can be comfortable just being themselves, without trying to be what other people expect them to be; without trying to become something other than they are at that moment; without finding themselves thinking about how they might be going wrong and where. Some people never have those days, or never develop that ability, while others, those strange and mysterious beings, manage to seem as though they live in a constant haze of it.
I don't know which sort would end up the better person, though I can say that most people would fit neither extreme (as in almost all things human).
Now I'm going to write a little bit of nothing in particular before I toddle off to taste the breath of dreams.
To walk here is to brave thorns and mires, or so the stories go, but the flowers that bloom in the midst of all this mud are the most lovely, the most elegant, with the straightest stalks and greenest leaves and most delicate blooms. That is why we continue to walk here, braving the swamp-lights, the poisonous fumes, the invisible quicksand and sucking mud, the deadly creeping vines covered in the finest of thorny fur that strangle the impatient walker. We cannot thrive without those flowers. To describe them is impossible--they have an unspeakable ceaseless beauty that threatens harm even as it entreats you to touch one silken petal, and to compound such loveliness into mere words is a task futile for the tongue of a mere man to try to encompass. Perhaps the gods would have more luck.
Oh, I'm tired of fighting with words. I'm leaving. Good evening.
I don't know which sort would end up the better person, though I can say that most people would fit neither extreme (as in almost all things human).
Now I'm going to write a little bit of nothing in particular before I toddle off to taste the breath of dreams.
To walk here is to brave thorns and mires, or so the stories go, but the flowers that bloom in the midst of all this mud are the most lovely, the most elegant, with the straightest stalks and greenest leaves and most delicate blooms. That is why we continue to walk here, braving the swamp-lights, the poisonous fumes, the invisible quicksand and sucking mud, the deadly creeping vines covered in the finest of thorny fur that strangle the impatient walker. We cannot thrive without those flowers. To describe them is impossible--they have an unspeakable ceaseless beauty that threatens harm even as it entreats you to touch one silken petal, and to compound such loveliness into mere words is a task futile for the tongue of a mere man to try to encompass. Perhaps the gods would have more luck.
Oh, I'm tired of fighting with words. I'm leaving. Good evening.
