The Sleight of Hand

I am almost pretty sure the comment is referencing me. This is presuming that I am avoiding the person when I am presuming that the person likes me. Hmm. What a whole lot of presumptions that seem to bend back onto itself, much like the mobius strip. But for those who know me, nothing Venusian is possible for this postmodernist freak. Love is a mere illusion, a sleight of hand that sedates and incites the individual into an oxymoronic frenzy.

Once More Unto the Bridge, My Friend

The days passed by quickly and surely enough, that I am finally back once more in that cosy corner I call Normalcy. It is time to rig up my usual activities, and fulfill my resolutions once more, once more unto the bridges. Time is limited, and my husk awaits my modifications to the unsightly wobbles that have been there as far as I can remember. My mind seeks a respite while my taste for life has become sharper with each melody in trance mode. The poisons shall run again through the vessel. The end is nigh, I say, or rather, the night has no end, as I shuttle between solipsism and endless partying with known and unknown entities.

Countdown (to Home) 10

It's Tuesday, and nine more days before touchdown. Resting at the hotel now, as I ponder on my eccentricities and if ever it could be reconciled with society's norms. And that probably I should abandon my idea of living with another person, novel as it is initially. I am too solipsistic by nature. I miss my original lifestyle and today is the closest I have ever come to it. The end of the year draws near and my resolution seems more than ever pressing, being the resolution so many years hence. At all costs. I have made up my mind not to travel next year, just to further my cause. Would I get a chance to enter something into my blog tomorrow? I have no idea. I have no idea what comes tomorrow.

He keeps saying that it is a waste to stay in the hotel, but yet, is it really such a waste when I get the time to myself? 10 days will pass. but in what manner, I may ask.

Road March

The days grow longer. The excitement pales as the mucus grows longer. I cannot imagine myself saying this, but I am slightly homesick. Would I ever grow accustomed to the alien tongue that casts me as the outsider? Would I ever overcome the puzzlement and the irritation that the language barrier presents? My speech betrays me although my skin resembles theirs. My face mirrors the exhaustion, its blotches of angry redness in contrast to their pasty whiteness, and but a nasty reminder to the days passed in coldness and tiredness. My money runs out as fast as my energy. My roommate finally succumbs to the exhaustion although he is hesitant to admit the weariness. The road march continues, as I lower my head to the blistering cold wind howling in my muffled ears. Where everyone suffers, I am the god of suffering and shall render its administration in due order. No one is spared. The road march continues.