• 1:29 PM, Thursday, February 2, 2012

This probably isn't the best time to be blogging when the deadline's breathing down my neck, but the weather's so delicious and my brain's filled with hymns and rhythms and epiphanies and I don't want to lose sight of this, whatever I'm feeling.

I've read through my posts. My world is centered around myself.
Often I'm the narrator who muses over tales that are not my own.

Meaning, I interpret situations and people in my own manner.
I like- prefer to be the observer, the by-stander, the uninvolved.

When I'm forced into the picture, I'm a blubbery mess.
I'm self-conscious of everything I am, my portrayal of me.

Although my blog is filled with confessions of how confused I am, days pass me by while I'm observing, taking in the little, insignificant acts of life and parsing them through a shredder within me. Then I cradle the shreds and chew on them, most thoughtfully.

It removes the confusion and leaves a tingling pressure.
I do not have an impact on anyone and I don't have to be mindful of me.

It's one of the few things that pulls me down to reality without demanding anything in return, makes me feel the hop in my steps.

I take in my surroundings, I see people pushing others to board the morning train, making irritated tuts of annoyance, I see the girl holding her mother's hand as she sucks on a lollipop and rambles away about a day well spent in school while her mother tucks her sweaty strands away and pets her head and I see the love glimmering in her eyes, I see the deluded youths in love with love as they hold the object that embodies their interpretation of love, but I don't shake my head in sympathy because interpretations are ubiquitous and unique in their own rights, I see the elderly ranting about their grandchildren and matters so irrelevant in the grand scheme of life, I see the businessmen tapping away on electronical devices and wonder if they know half the effort spent on developing such devices, and I'm just so happy.

I observe, and I'm happy, because these are tales that are not my own.
Nobody needs to know who I am, nor would they be burdened with my thoughts.

I'm unshackled from myself when I peruse tales and tales and endless tales.

Once, I've tried to analyse myself.
Analyse my life story, I my me mine.

I'm still the narrator, the omnipotent, all foreseeing.
I analysed my reactions, interactions, words.

I tried to form an opinion of myself, then I gave up halfway because I wasn't half as interested in this person called Janet as I was in the rest of the world.

It isn't because I already know what Janet goes through.
It's because Janet is uninspirational and nothing but another face in the masses.

So I think, I'll just do what I'm best at.
People's opinions of Janet shouldn't matter to me.

I want to observe and paint the funny walks of life.

And that is all.