Plathological

Giving In

The reason I've finally become comfortable with how I've stopped caring, and by that I mean: wringing my hands in my previous all consuming existential manner is: you can't take the postmodern out of the girl. You simply can't. Not even close to entirely. This would be a feat of the ages, and I doubt anyone is truly up to that. Though I welcome the following: (the honing and existence of) craft, accessibility, the pursuit of knowledge, the irony of intent, the double-edged, multi-layered futility of my basic existence, what my emotions mean (to me) in reference, context, and decimal point. Tomorrow I am looking forward to (1) having a shower, (2) editing others' work, for fun. Then I can start digging myself again. Today, after I released myself from my (now) opus of a story, I swayed all over the poles of the bus, upon exodus. Spewing music everywhere, you were telling me how, this ain't no rodeo town. At least I got off at the right stop, this time. Bonus points to Xavier. He gets top prize for waking me up with the most phone calls [at times by (vicious) accident, at times requesting edits of his work] while I was feverish and quite ill, trying to sleep/block out the cold world on my couch. Only I myself could be so subtly and inadvertently cruel. My love for you consumes me. It's like a day and night thing. Oh, grace & poise. xoxox