Originally written: 30 July 2010
Some people can’t see beauty in complicatedness. I can. When I die, I will leave this thought for mankind to ponder upon: Complexity is beauty made profound.
I’m often attracted to the jaggedness of a thing. Maybe it’s my obsession with perfection. If you noticed contradiction in my previous statement, don’t be puzzled. I’m a paradox and a walking oxymoron combined. If you observed redundancy in my other statements, don’t be surprised. I have another obsession–stressing my point in three’s. If I stressed my point only twice–well, that’s my love for irregularity taking over me.
Now that I have so many ideas flowing in me, pardon my nagging bipolar mania. That’s flight of ideas, alright. Now, a guy named Roseller might again recommend that I see my shrink quick, I will have to warn him that my doctor has given up on me. Perhaps he can suggest another?
When I’m inlove, I can’t seem to come up with a well-grounded cerebration. I often sound melodramatic, intoxicated, and illogical because I see the world in a fantastical way. When not, my mentation seems sensible but it’s rather sardonic. It’s the same thing when I’m sober.
If I were my reader, I would prefer reading an article written when the writer is stupefied by alcohol or love–cause it’s when the writer is in her craziest state that she is being true to her readers.
To die a conformist is an unfortunate possibility. A routinary life is close to non-existence. It’s a therapy to be neurotic once in a while. Trust me.
Current time: 30 July 2026
The frenzy has quieted—no more unruly thoughts stampeding through my neurons. Perhaps it is maturity settling in, a soft gravity that makes me feel too weathered for such restless whims. Or perhaps those ideas still linger, tucked away in shadowed corners, clinging like plaques to the inner walls—silent, but not entirely gone. Maybe I have rinsed them out in moments of quiet cleansing, small private detoxes of the mind.
My emotions no longer surge the way they used to. The tides have gentled; the storms rarely come. I am no longer a creature of sudden outbursts, but of steady breathing and deliberate calm. Peace, once fleeting, now feels like a familiar room I can return to.
Love no longer intoxicates me into losing myself. Instead, I find myself drawn to quieter hungers—slow, unhurried mornings, nights that settle deeply into contentment, and days that unfold with a quiet kind of grace.
Writer’s note:
Did you notice how much my tone has improved? That’s the product of 16 years of riding the tides of life. Maybe I’ve gained maturity; maybe I haven’t. Perhaps that, too, remains a mystery. It’s fascinating how time flies—fast enough to erase the mundane memories of the past, yet slow enough to preserve and collect the ones that truly matter. Somewhere along the way, we learn that not every moment is meant to be remembered, but the moments that shape us somehow find a way to stay.
