Lately by Turn Off The Stars

I have so much time in my hands, its absurd that it passes by quickly. It doesn't hover at all, not in the mornings when I scramble to get things done. Juggling with clearing things and watching Ellen Degeneres.

With everyone and everything I know is moving forward into worlds unreachable. I'm just stuck in re-reading the same Bronte books (ol Jane Eyre). I can't finish Wuthering Heights ironically. This may sound impertinent but I find it impassively boring.

Maybe I’m going through a bohemian phase myself, as I can see that my family does have some Hippy tendencies.

I really don’t know much of what I want to do, my obsessions with art and building, and numbers. During the younger days, I wanted to take up photography so badly. I don't know what changed. Was it the norm who developed the sudden euphoric excitement over gigantor Canon whateverness that made me lose my bon-appetite interest? I never quite ponder to be bothered with it.

Sounds really facile, but no matter how much I stare at books or words with it’s flawless prose, life still seems to have no grounding, or not much at least. I’m thankful for all the exposure the world had offered, but sometimes one can’t help but feel dettered and greedy, and the gleaming building, the pages and the words just seem to fade away.

Is it me, or I want dangerous? As much as my imagination can be, I wouldn't be a survival at dangerous and reckless. I'm far too boring. Despite pending on tons of indecisions of making choices as simple as food in a restaurant. I still pick out what I always do every other time. Irony.

So..

Everything at Sporadical is precisely the saying I was going for. Inconsistent outburst of enthusiasm critism having no order in time. Hyperbole sudden silence, which explains my previous blog. Could I be anymore distracted.

Tara ta.