Does it really taste better the older it gets?
I'm so afraid of getting old. All the stories I read feature youth in their prime. I feel like I am reaching the tip of that, or maybe I currently am on it. It's hard to say, as it depends on what I consider my "prime". Is my prime still living at home, struggling through university and working part-time? No...but maybe if I mean age wise, or body-type wise, I guess. This is the time to live right? This is when people party and make out, get drunk and meet new people...no? Well I sure as hell aint doing the shitz like that - not that I want to.
Really what I want is independence - and I see money as a means for this. Then my mind wanders towards cold-blue and the absolute horror that all my opportunities might be passing me by as I fail to complete this novel.
Allow me to rant this age old tale (even if it sounds inspired by Shakes, cause it is):
What a demonic inconceivable substance that robs me of my humanity! For years have I suffered on the mere thought of black on white - white for lack of black, and nurtured many a salt-stained cheek for it. It is my own misgivings. My faults doubled upon themselves - guilt laid out onto guilt until I can no longer see the originator. I am my own enemy, not the white abyss. My mind is plagued by a love that may never be returned - whose pages may never be read. This blue, this cold that is frozen within my heart, is but an unborn child. If ever the two - cold and blue - meet on the page, to fill the white abyss with black-blue substance, then I will hit my prime.
I empty of my cartridge; words escape me yet again. Fruitless...fruitless time...yielding no advantages...thrusting me upon the whims of my hands....
