My blog may be the only place where I can truly be me. Where I can be so cryptic that it pains my readers, but opine in such a way that my point can be understand. That I am hurt, that life is complicated, but that I still (and possibly always will) have quixotic dreams and hopes for this world. Is it so wrong? Is no a peccadillo, but a federal crime to believe in those silly fantasies? Does it make me puerile? No. Because, secretly, everyone has hope. Everyone sees that "light at the end of the tunnel" and they strive towards it. We walk to the light, to the hope, to our dreams, to the end of the tunnel. And no matter how many times we fall, convince ourselves that it's stupid, we keep going forward-driven by only blind faith. But, it's always been better than being pallid.
I'm sorry if my prattle hasn't been to your liking, but that's not really the point of mindless chatter. I can't be perfect; I can't please everyone. I stand as one-one person. With dreams, goals, beliefs that contradict others, but that's who I am. I was never made to be a paragon. I'm not a plastic person who falls to others. The only regrets I have are those of my mistakes, but I don't heave and grieve over them until I die. No. I accept them, for denying can lead to worse outcomes than lies. If life has taught me anything, it's that. Acceptance is my redress.
There you stand, my beautiful raconteur. And here you come, towards me, with your smile and your probity. Who could have had the prescient to see us? "'Not I' said the cat." No one would have thought that you, my sumptuous-ness, would be there to hold me hand. To care about me. To, dare I say, love me. And there I was, like a cliff with water rushing towards it. Here you came, like the ocean with waves that crashed against me by fate and Luna herself. (I told you to address her by her name in her presence.) Now, it is ever-ostensible what will happen to us. What will be lost. What we must now live with. What thing we brought upon ourselves in such a precipitate manner.
The perspicacious minded are never the pedant. They are the brilliant, the bold, the polyglots, the talented, but never the braggers. And she, who holds herself so high, who believes she is so phlegmatic, falls with the know-it-alls. How is it that she, someone who once believed so much, falls with everyone she hated? The saddest part is that she doesn't know she's there. She believes that she has the propriety of the rest of the world. How tragically wrong.
Achievements are, I find, very pathogenic. Especially since pride is the worst of the seven sins (Wrath, Sloth, Lust, Greed, Pride, Gluttony, Envy). It takes over as just subtle pride, knowing that this one thing is good. But soon, it progresses to a "Look at me; look at me." Slowly, as achievements grow, they slip away. The audience watches as the person isn't even thinking about pugilism with their sin. Because no one realizes when they get to high up, or they wouldn't be there.
You're having a parley now.
'I stand in the plebeian world,
and we stare at the shadows.
Like clouds,
our guesses our pithy.
The pain to ossify
matches the sadness of a tragic hero.
Penury and the politic man,
made LBJ.'
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