I Stopped Thinking

May I have your attention? Publication of self-discovery requires vultures to crow over and exclaim of self's savory goodness. Fame is a cannibalistic performance where the dancers gobble up each others faces, all the while complimenting their eyes, their lips and their mind. A Las Vegas of sorts.

With this in mind do I prepare my case:

I am the coldest sentimentalist you will ever meet. I have this terrible longing for euphoria and paradise-perfection. People claim their dreams to be mute and grayscale. I have a gene, or a flaw, that colors my dreams with more passion than is allotted to reality.

So living and breathing makes for an anticlimatic awakening akin to the feeling you get when leaving the theatre.

But as long as I have my dreams, I do not care. So here I am cold. I don't feel so much for the duller colors. The traffic would carry on anyway no matter how much I cried about it. Daily grind aside, I have consciously choosen not to cry.

What I'm trying to say is that I think too much to feel anything.

The good news is that I will never have to worry about depression.

The good news is that I am not so easily taken in by his kisses. My mind is working and my lips are numb. Hardly romantic. He must feel something: holy shit friend, your jaw just popped.

The good news is that I don't dwell on trivial matters.

Hardly romantic now, but when left alone at last, I smile at my fidelity. They cannot capture my soul. No one can make me love them. I have given myself to the romanticism of belonging to only one.

As I said, the coldest sentimentalist you will ever meet.

So, yes, my romantic side is hiding. Which is just as well. Because she is a regular bitch.