I used to like to complain

"Your proposition, like you, is simple, of interest only to the human soul: vast reach of all that is not, and still something is."

If you must try so hard, it's not without any disappointment. You try taking hold of air, of an elegiac sentiment, of your deepest desire... of impossibility, so to speak. Yet there's already a staunch hunch, within you, that it exists, if beyond tangibility and explanation. You must exist, after all, albeit on an unknowable plane. Yet right here, your feet touches good, firm ground. People learn to love the inexplicable after living so long. Our empirical understanding of what is merely temporal only serves to make us more human, ignorant that we are ignorant.

I accept this beautiful condition.

There have been countless times when I wished that I was a fine arts student. But being a writer will do, I guess. Everything has the same end (and smell, as strange as that is), in my mind right now. The world post-graduation makes me a little bit nauseous, yet also nauseatingly... optimistic. Like I can do whatever the fuck I want. This... it's an inexplicable joyful feeling that washes over me when I can't find my bearings, yet I just decide that it's completely fine. 

Let's all be lost souls and delay the Real World for just a little bit more. 

Here, have some old Moldy Peaches.