Yesterday I gave the orange hourglass away and a part of me died with it. I do not think I am being excessively dramatic and I strongly suspect that my soul has been trapped in one of those little bubbles stuck in orange gel land.
Does knowing this increase your pleasure?
Let me gripe a bit about how I am submerged (once again) in all things insignificant but peskily time-consuming like rehearsals, more rehearsals and term papers that have to be churned out by the end of this week (hopefully). Again I place undue pressure on myself and relish the feeling of suffocation.
The closest thing I got to having a life recently is when I watched Constantine on Friday (alone of course). I like the idea of the liminality of water - isn't it true that we can exist in the form of a solid and gas (soul?) but not in liquid form? Well of course you can say that decomposed bodies are liquefied but, ewww, let's not go there for a while. (I feign queasiness so as not to appear too weird.)
Heavily ironic was how the devil gave life to gain a soul.
This gratituously parenthesised entry serves to prove the point that everything worth saying is hidden betweeen lines, (or not).
If this entry seems delirious (or lacking the sluggish fluidity of gel), that is because the reading break starts tomorrow and already I am bursting with pleasure because I have a mountain of work to devour. Chomp Chomp.
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