The Cold-blooded
When we watch a drama we are under the temporary power of the theater and we are compelled to 'suspend our disbeliefs'. We do not, for example, question why humans can turn to rhinoceroses in Rhinoceros nor do we complain unnecessarily of the sheer chance of Jack being Algernon's elder brother and, more importantly as Wilde would have observed, having the genuine name Ernest in The Importance of Being Earnest.
Similarly, a female in judging a male is compelled to temporarily shelve his weak points, suspending them all (perhaps in a diary? or for the highly advanced, a comprehensive checklist?) to that one moment of denouement where they would either be permanently forgiven in the name of greater things, or permanently condemned as she walks out of the theater in distaste.
If the female erred on the side of judgement, formalism, rationalism, the male erred on the side of paying for tickets to a show he could not appreciate.
- page 72. Chapter III: The Drama in Life.
There are things that happen in life which reaffirm the fact that you do not belong to the place you are in now. If I were a stronger, more sensible person I would, perhaps, seek to establish myself firmly in that sea of faces which seem always lit with smiles. But I am not, nor ever will be.
It is in times like this where I find myself reaching into the inner reaches of my existence, and I for one am glad there is something in my hands when I pull them out. The underground cavern is still there, the deformed inhabitants of it still embrace you with claws that otherwise seem familiar and warm to the touch. Your home is always there for you, it's where you belong to and where you should always stay. The band of ragtag individuals, however small, remain loyal to you. They are there for you, they stand by you, behind you, they understand you because they understand themselves. Occasionally one of them rises to the surface, occasionally one of them find lodging there; but in the time that has passed not one of them has betrayed the nature they have. I dont think they can, I dont think I can, I dont think I will.
There is immense poetic tension, poetic potential within me now which would, I suspect, produce writings I could never produce at any other time; but just this once, I'm going to blow the candle out. Creatures live in darkness and do not write poetry.
Similarly, a female in judging a male is compelled to temporarily shelve his weak points, suspending them all (perhaps in a diary? or for the highly advanced, a comprehensive checklist?) to that one moment of denouement where they would either be permanently forgiven in the name of greater things, or permanently condemned as she walks out of the theater in distaste.
If the female erred on the side of judgement, formalism, rationalism, the male erred on the side of paying for tickets to a show he could not appreciate.
- page 72. Chapter III: The Drama in Life.
There are things that happen in life which reaffirm the fact that you do not belong to the place you are in now. If I were a stronger, more sensible person I would, perhaps, seek to establish myself firmly in that sea of faces which seem always lit with smiles. But I am not, nor ever will be.
It is in times like this where I find myself reaching into the inner reaches of my existence, and I for one am glad there is something in my hands when I pull them out. The underground cavern is still there, the deformed inhabitants of it still embrace you with claws that otherwise seem familiar and warm to the touch. Your home is always there for you, it's where you belong to and where you should always stay. The band of ragtag individuals, however small, remain loyal to you. They are there for you, they stand by you, behind you, they understand you because they understand themselves. Occasionally one of them rises to the surface, occasionally one of them find lodging there; but in the time that has passed not one of them has betrayed the nature they have. I dont think they can, I dont think I can, I dont think I will.
There is immense poetic tension, poetic potential within me now which would, I suspect, produce writings I could never produce at any other time; but just this once, I'm going to blow the candle out. Creatures live in darkness and do not write poetry.
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