[As deciphered from my spidery scrawlings)
The mood where I want to write, but all I have to write is definitely too raw for the blug, but happens to be just raw enough for my Moleskine (Which I adore). Hopefully, writing in here should allow me to temper my pointlesses into something that carries a little meaning and coherency. My only fear is to inhabit my Moleskine entirely and end up never post anything on the blug.I like to believe that everyone is a person. In that, I like to believe that everyone has unique thoughts and feelings, and explores their own universe in a way that is alien and beautiful. I try and persuade myself that everyone has moments of profoundness. That everyone thinks. All the time.
Which is why it really shakes me when I see people who aren't. It really upsets me. People who keep themselves alive if only to witness a tv programme, people who live for Facebook statuses. People who replace being human for the emotions pimped out by 2nd rate writers and directors. People who need scraping off of the floor. It really scares me.
There are people, acting like they are normal people, and they don't even have an imagination.
At the time of writing, I'm blinking back tears.
How can this happen to someone? How can you exist and live in a world like this, and not care about things, wonder about whys, worry about ifs? These flat, colourless blobs are everywhere. They're sat on buses, watching their children with matte eyes.
They huddle and hive together, pretending they're feeling.
They don't know what they aren't.
