the little things

The little things in life matter. They really do. I have to do little things constantly like chopping up onions very fine with my best knife - I think I inherited it from a roommate ten years ago. Or take a long hot bath with a gallon of milk added and half a bottle of mr. bubble - things like that just to feel slightly more human every once in a while. Or staying up all night once in a while for no good reason. Filling the time with digging through boxes of old magazines, writings and papers, watching dumb or bad or even good movies - the ones you wouldn't watch at 9:30 Tuesday night, or Sunday afternoon. The little things matter.

this mediocrity

Sounds rather harsh, when asked to explain yourself in a single word - mediocre. Sounds harsh, although is neither untrue nor harsh at all. In any given twenty four hours, how much is free time? How much is work, sleep, eating and leisure? Is leisure even a category? Then, how much is wasted? How much is waste? Watching a Seinfeld episode you've seen seventeen times. Staring at a keyboard or notebook rather than writing. Clicking the ad links on the right side of a browser. Add it up in a day. If the sum total of waste is more than three minutes, that's unfortunate. If it's thirty minutes, that's disdainful. If it's three hours, that is mediocre. And I'm not quite certain - nor unwilling to do spell check - if that is the correct spelling or not. Mediocre.

7-4 1230

Distant hesitation
Again, the stories blur
The lines of comprehension
Fragile as ever, the spectacle uncertain
Between these nights of starry mumbles
Delicate in word and silent in deed
All those lost and empty intentions
Like a torn and ragged, but loved, old rope
Black was the softest back then
Comfortable and contrived
Unspoken were the words
Such the beauty of ignorance declined