(The Stolen Diary) Stolen thoughts
There is a strange blankness. A lulling quietness, with an occasional whimper. The Random Little Girl and the Boy Next Door, are. They just are. She would have had a lot of things to say to him. But mostly silent phrases; without a form, without a meaning, without a reason. Or perhaps, with form and meaning and reason- but all in the realm of dreams, juxtaposed by the world that exists in reality and both superimposed upon, by some odd article, called practicality. Practicality, you see, is a craft; that human beings have conjured out of thin air. Causes and Effects that exist in a mind. A mind. Not every mind. Paragraphs, whole stories and novels, cast in his or her own world of 'kitsch', where everything that is unacceptable, is made purposely invisible, is left out of this 'practical world' and is therefore the sanest and most plausible explanation to leave out or behind, everything that refuses to shed its unacceptability.
Odd.
Communication, as a matter of an occurence, is few and far between, for such odd people. Somewhere down the line the Random Little Girl knows properly, that the Boy Next Door, might be incorrigibly mischievous, but he is merely Lucifer, not Satan. Somewhere down the line that idiot of the Boy Next Door knows, that although he might love to hate the Random Little Girl, she is probably a really good playmate, albeit, crank. Somewhere down the line, they both know, they will never admit certain things beyond their sense of practicality, beyond their sense of the disgusting kitsch, that they so adore, and because of every sane reason known to mankind.
X wants to speak. Perhaps Y does too. Neither will. Little children are difficult beings. They can be very unreasonable when they do not find the toys they so love. At which point of time, they will never see your perspective, no matter how obvious it might seem.
Because an upset grudge, arising out of a state of having been let down (primarily for reasons of assumptions, based on the aforesaid, kitsch), between difficult friends, is an unlikely article to wish away; therefore.
Odd.
Communication, as a matter of an occurence, is few and far between, for such odd people. Somewhere down the line the Random Little Girl knows properly, that the Boy Next Door, might be incorrigibly mischievous, but he is merely Lucifer, not Satan. Somewhere down the line that idiot of the Boy Next Door knows, that although he might love to hate the Random Little Girl, she is probably a really good playmate, albeit, crank. Somewhere down the line, they both know, they will never admit certain things beyond their sense of practicality, beyond their sense of the disgusting kitsch, that they so adore, and because of every sane reason known to mankind.
X wants to speak. Perhaps Y does too. Neither will. Little children are difficult beings. They can be very unreasonable when they do not find the toys they so love. At which point of time, they will never see your perspective, no matter how obvious it might seem.
Because an upset grudge, arising out of a state of having been let down (primarily for reasons of assumptions, based on the aforesaid, kitsch), between difficult friends, is an unlikely article to wish away; therefore.
posted by the transient twilight @ 6:45 pm
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