i want to have a life that is not just a story, but sounds like something you couldn't make up. something full, not cluttered. more than just rooms full of stuff, more than a few plastic lawn chairs and spaghetti every thursday. something more than rented rooms, something thicker than this month's paycheque. more nourishing than bread, more quenching than water, more pure than any air you'll ever find. something that changes with the seasons but will be stronger than the foundations of my house. i want a life of purpose and sense, of frivolity and candy.
sitting under a tree of golden leaves, the brilliance of sunshine illuminating all of the maybes and the possiblys. there are dead leaves around me, grass littered with what was this season's change. i want to be like them; purposeful but not permanent. neautiful but passing. recognizable but wholly anonymous.
19:44 | Sept. 23, 2009