Rain. Lovely Rain. Falling into my soul.
One's own best friend. The "One" in this instance being myself or, rather, me. Or perhaps a "Be" verb, etre, without any accents. Je suis...yes this is correct.
That is my mentality for the near furture, as in from tommorrow on.
Even if it is rather cliche'.
This I the only way I am going to be able to be sane and happy during the next months. Actually until next September. Or until I can accept my fate. I just have to keep this credo and my father's handshake advice in the eastern corner of my mind. And the fact that I am supposed to be mature, pretentious, intellegent and posess a firm grip upon my emotions.
I just returned from downtown E.C., pondering many subjects and the lights downtown, the glassy street and leaves in my usual location. Since then I have been reading Arthur Miller's
All My Sons with a refresh of
Macbeth while practicing my plie's, complete with pointe shoes, at the same time in the entry way/area/location. And wearing an obnoxiously colored scarf. Perhaps if I remind myself that I really am a complete dork, a self-proclaimed geek, this will keep me sane, optimistic and make me feel somewhat unique. These masses. Disgust. I crawl into my bright minty colored scaf, which smells of...love.
Oh rain.
Reading Artaud causes the neurons in my head to have a fiesta. A drunken fiesta. But a happy, slightly confused fiesta. I
heart Artaud.
I love...
