It seems very easy for your self to become buried beneath what you feel. What is it that you feel, and what is it that makes you know what you are feeling? If something so terribly disappointing happens to you, perhaps you consider how to witheringly respond or perhaps that response just occurs, waiting in its ignition for you to then take it up. Where is the line between a framed, sophisticated melodrama and a realistic, callow loss of hope? Introspection, as an examination of the meaning behind the things you are and do, and whatever it is that happens to you, can turn all things into an artifice. And you can live forever wondering what your each subsequent sentence, movement, and emotion are, discerning them in a rationalizing manner before you even understand them through feeling. You can twist out your life wondering if they are really existent, or if they exist because you have concluded that is the proper posture to have. So what is.
1 comment:
(sometimes) the line appears much later than one had ought to have seen it.
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