first love

It’s curious how I need a worse load of bullshit to actually get me to do this, you know – I find that I simply cannot get myself to write unless I’m decidedly screwing myself up in a major way that this seems less intolerable. It’s a sickness to sit with words and arrange them on a document, but its torture to approach an examination without digression. Hence, here goes.

Not that this is going to be anything new to anyone who knows the remotest part of me (or those who like to think they do) but I’ve suddenly taken too much to this song. Okay, well… It’s ‘Half of my heart’, there I said it.

“half of my heart

has a real good imagination,

half of my heart’s got you;

half of my heart’s

got a right mind to tell you

that half of my heart won’t do…”

no one would take my word for this as is immensely obvious, but no one other than Mayer could possibly spring this up and mean it too. I mean, I see him board a taxi in that absurdly underdone music video and it’s so… relatable?

Consider this, and do so seriously: Do you think you actually believe in love? I can’t probably thrust expertise into this after Woody Allen, after all that’s subsequently happened, or maybe I’m ahead of the bend and I look behind and see nothing. It scares me to think that I don’t really even think about someone I used to think about all the time, how frightening can emotions get, really. We’re so excessively reminding ourselves to do things that we forget that we wouldn’t do them at all if there weren’t that unnecessary bit of driving force. And why do you have to do that?

Heck, I’m exhausting myself again. It’s sick, seriously sick to having to read myself write what I know already… I mean, how productive is all this, what am I writing this for, am I actually going to change anything by putting this thought out? It sucks to think that every little burst of thought, every possible inspiration to make something is nothing but masturbation, that you only want to get it out but you don’t care where it goes – even if it means ‘down the drain’.

But take this back, though – I never even think about a lot of people that I thought fascinated me at a point of time, maybe they do even now but I just see their Xs and Ys, I place them and now that I know, it’s not as intriguing at all. Nothing is, nothing can ever be. Everything has this expiry date, everything is this milk product where you’ve got to eat it and not save it for later or hold it out for a half a lifetime. And when you eat it, you’re done. It’s done. And I don’t think I need to tell you about what it becomes, then – you’re bound to think that I’m some sort of weird-freak if I did say that.

I think this, I think ‘Bicentennial Man’ – 200 years, hell. Thank the force that that was a robot.