Past few days I've had trouble sleeping,and end up awake at 4am.my bed a mess of overturned novels,waiting to be finished.Its stuff like Wuthering Heights,an apparent classic,that challenges me most-you can always tell bad books from the start,the first chapter if not the first page.But books like this,you find yourself enjoying and sneaking a few pages in,before a lecture,while you cook,on the walk to class-because it is just so damn hard to put down.But then,there's this visible shift in the story.As if the writer wrote the first part,took a long holiday during a number of things happened-the train of thought that was there before,the state in which the writer wrote all those genius things,had been disrupted.Then when you get on to that next part,usually either the second half of the book,or the last few chapters-and find that its not great,you keep reading on for the promise that something will creep up,that this book will not be something that if someone asks if you liked-you reply with uncertainty,knowing very much that a huge chunk of it you did enjoy but the remainder quite putrid.

And I surf the net,often for photos to get lost into.Hazy photos of just trees and girls dancing in a bright,neon blur or something.On one side,art will be the uniting tool-once in a while I meet someone,who on no other basis but art,relate to.On the other hand,its the divider-we give it a name and let it parent us,hiding under its cool shade for a while,after a while we stray off back to our own lives-realising that it was something else than art,loneliness perhaps.Desperation,maybe.That lead us to dig a hole and hide in there.Anyway,its during nightime,after I come concious from an unsuccessful sleep-that I write stories,or poems sometimes-but most of the times,just lines about stuff that don't go together.But these stories often reflect on stuff I didn't think I remembered-you can stow your memories in fiction,guise them with anything you want,give them a different life,or a new ending.

We were talking about all these shows.Sex and the city,all that stuff.Maybe its a teen thing,but so many people are characterising themselves with problems.Hi,I'm Linda and my dog just died.Hi,I'm Chris and I'm starving.Some people do have genuine things to rant about to their friends,but so many of us-have become indulgent,as if without these problems we make for ourselves,we would'nt exist.We'd be perfectly obsolete,with nothing to do if we didn't have shit to complain about over lunch.Sure Carrie Bradshaw and co. need their problems,its a show,but what have we become?We make the most out of every single misfortune,milk the littlest ones for days and latch on to new ones once they crop up.

I keep thinking about the future,2010 that big leap.They say study more,come back and the big ones will triple your pay.Improve your prospects,but at the moment at least (trust not this fickle mind),I want to dive into the world.Headfirst,and claim it as a calculated risk.I want to swim in unventured waters,immerse myself in a new environment.There was a girl,fair and slender,who stood looking at me by the doorframe,light reflected in her eyes and a pensive smile on her face.

a soul admitted to itself:
finite infinity.


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