miserable memoirs of melodious monotony.
Trappings of transient teachings. Commentary of the commonplace. Persistent pithing of impeccable imaginings. Conundrums of contentment versus complacency. Riddles of self-ridicule. Ironic or idiotic. Clever or conceited. Self-aware or self-obsessed. Ambitious alliterate attention seeking assholes. An ever growing generic generation gluttonously gorging on grotesquely glorified self-gratification.
Don’t buy into the bullshit. It all leads to one place.
To disgust of Monday’s & delight of Friday’s. Sunny weekdays versus rainy weekends. An existence lived in self-pity. Relentless criticism of the life relegated to. The sun shines, birds sing, children play. Serenity at its simplest. And yet here I stand, imprisoned by these fictitious walls created by the necessity of currency. It repulses me. Trading time for tokens on the endless road to… where exactly? Happiness? Fulfillment?
When is enough, enough? How much passion will die for a dollar? Once it has been oppressed within for so long can it be reborn, or is it destined to be forever jaded by time spent in pessimistic company?
Fuck you to anyone that says it’s worth it. It’s lies. Happiness is not a future state of being. Happiness, as with all emotion, though through moments of reminiscence can be revived… can only ever be truly experienced in the present.
Stop wishing things would change and change.