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27 April 2007 @ 03:56 pm
 
tonight i took a walk and sat on the curb watching a carnival at the end of the street, having a smoke, looking at the ugly whirl-a-whatevers and listening to the kids scream.

I just realized something, looking at my cell phone. I kept changing the background colors, glancing into a mirror at myself, illuminated by its glow. I swapped through them endlessly, searching for the perfect illumination, with just the right quality. Everyone who's anyone knows that when you're illuminated from below, you look odd and menacing. By what they don't realize is that the color of the light is so important. It has so much bearing on how I look to myself when I'm looking at myself, studying the effects I can manufacture with different colors of light.

Eyes don't look haggard and forlorn on their own. Well, they do - but not enough.

i remember as a kid, a carnival was a big deal to me, something cool and magical, but now i just see it as a bunch of drugged up gypsies trying to rape the town through exorbitantly priced cotton candy.

When I was young, I had fun in the blandest and tritest of ways. Deviously tween, I lost my virginity to inertia on some evening where the sun is forever going down. Like me, it was debating with itself, wondering how it would look passing over the horizon in atmosphere of different thickness and molecular composition. Like it, it was ever pure and purer.

Nowadays, those childhood ways run thick and sweet and sticky. They cluster in residue on my fingertips and I furiously scrub at them, trying to get my fingernails ever cleaner. I make a habit of digging through the dirt of myself, you know, wondering how I'll look cleaning off my fingertips from different sorts of dirt, different levels of wetness. This is because I'm genuine. We truehearts are forever in the process.

i saw a bunch of little guys unloading a truck of knockoff disney stuffed animals (mikey mouse?), and i got to feeling sad, jaded, wondering when my optimism all fell to pieces.

When people do things without wondering how they look to someone looking at himself with them as an externalized and inhuman mirror, I worry for their intellectual station. I condemn them - sure, but I worry about it through them, because surely they too must worry that they're not real. Projected solipsism is a sword that cuts no ways, but damn if I don't bleed neon green into the mirror, hemoraghing out my eyes.

i love this world and the people in it, love it and them dearly, all of them, but now it's different; still love, but profoundly sad.

It is only through self-referential and arrogant condescension that I love. I'll program that to appear on the background of the cell phone, now, and I'll see if I can see it reflected in the reflection of my eyes.