Where? On the 54D bus, at Baum & Millvale, heading north.
Who? Antonio
Why? Going to Hambone's to spend some time.
When? March 17th, around 9:00PM.
How? Happily.
Plans are more than hierarchical to-do lists. That is why I just desisted from listing my near-future plans.
@Hambone's.
The people around me create an environ of, well, activity. No one's talking to me nor viceversa, but it restrains my possibilities just enough for me to focus on the writing. And thinking. And it appeases the chimera of loneliness that sometimes haunts me.
But what to write? The urge to spit out whatever is salivated is gone now - writing should mean something tonight. Or should it?
Preference of the fast over the subtle... these days? Like with quick TV montages? Maybe... preference by many.
I want to say things I haven't, I've been to polite to say, too considerate to let out, thus obscuring my truth, and in turn, when others perceive my hesitance, theirs.
To Dad: You are afraid. Of the world, of the consequences, were you to step too much outside the rules: of sex, of the typical banned pleasures of the world. Drugs, sex, recklessness, you fear them not so much by experience as by religious canon, though you never fully consented to catholicism... thought you did to Indian beliefs.
I say this because I perceive the same fear in you that I've felt in me. So I infer. But I tell you I believe fear is unnecessary, as it constrains. It closes the doors to an infinite fraction of the entire spectrum, and prevents you from experiencing the world.
But you're older, of course, so experience might not be what you now seek. And who am I to criticize the one who raised me, taught me sciences and spirituality and the wonder of the world? Who guided me to a path of prosperity and good? I am just me. An observer, a close one, in fact, and be I correct or not, this is my opinion, truthful, and as such, respectful.
Five.
Writing is wonderful.
A vessel of thoughts, emotions, ideas, moments, one of the closest confidantes of the soul, on paper as on air. And though air is richer, paper is steadier, slower, ideally timeless, and I thank it intensely for allowing me to listen to Corelli's creations, to Gibran's contemplations, to Wilde's precise eloquence, for all that I have read and will read, and for all it allows myself to persist.
Who? Antonio
Why? Going to Hambone's to spend some time.
When? March 17th, around 9:00PM.
How? Happily.
Plans are more than hierarchical to-do lists. That is why I just desisted from listing my near-future plans.
@Hambone's.
The people around me create an environ of, well, activity. No one's talking to me nor viceversa, but it restrains my possibilities just enough for me to focus on the writing. And thinking. And it appeases the chimera of loneliness that sometimes haunts me.
But what to write? The urge to spit out whatever is salivated is gone now - writing should mean something tonight. Or should it?
Preference of the fast over the subtle... these days? Like with quick TV montages? Maybe... preference by many.
I want to say things I haven't, I've been to polite to say, too considerate to let out, thus obscuring my truth, and in turn, when others perceive my hesitance, theirs.
To Dad: You are afraid. Of the world, of the consequences, were you to step too much outside the rules: of sex, of the typical banned pleasures of the world. Drugs, sex, recklessness, you fear them not so much by experience as by religious canon, though you never fully consented to catholicism... thought you did to Indian beliefs.
I say this because I perceive the same fear in you that I've felt in me. So I infer. But I tell you I believe fear is unnecessary, as it constrains. It closes the doors to an infinite fraction of the entire spectrum, and prevents you from experiencing the world.
But you're older, of course, so experience might not be what you now seek. And who am I to criticize the one who raised me, taught me sciences and spirituality and the wonder of the world? Who guided me to a path of prosperity and good? I am just me. An observer, a close one, in fact, and be I correct or not, this is my opinion, truthful, and as such, respectful.
Five.
Writing is wonderful.
A vessel of thoughts, emotions, ideas, moments, one of the closest confidantes of the soul, on paper as on air. And though air is richer, paper is steadier, slower, ideally timeless, and I thank it intensely for allowing me to listen to Corelli's creations, to Gibran's contemplations, to Wilde's precise eloquence, for all that I have read and will read, and for all it allows myself to persist.
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