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is not it odd to write a book of sad proses when you are merry but cannot do a page now that it is heavy? i know some people we cannot see aching although their hands has scalded by a massive cauldron. they are the same people who do not cry for something that everyone is crying about. strong? maybe. apathetic? yes? i regard it as "they are busy to do so, too shallow minded to dig the depths and naked side of a situation or too lazy to start". and i would know how much it is when they do it actually.
it is just so fucked up that most of us think; soaking our eyes in tears is purely misery. who would not desire a drop of water of our eyes, rolling like pearls from a ripped bracelet because it is only the option that never leaves; to pine for such warm thing as you acknowledge what is happen to suffer. if i admit, i really do not know how to cry, would you cry for me?
for the first and real time, i want to end this in rays of the break of day. perhaps, that is my nature like quantum mechanics; to appreciate the beauty of a catastrophe and to grief the hint of joy in their eyes. i still find it, the satisfaction of being not enough; of doubting if you deserve where you are today; of fear that you are the only person in your group that is not wise; of preventing yourself to be not like them because they would not like you and the formation of the clouds under the gas station you have loved is dark and gone. it might be a sign that all along, it is not for you. but the thing is, you are odd, a massive cauldron itself, you are the collision of apathy and strength, it works for you vice versa. clouds could not be sought in a dark and stormy sky, at least you have tracked Venus.
