Do you ever wonder about how an author would describe you in a novel? Not only your appearance but the way you talk and laugh and hold yourself and all the expressions on your face?
I miss laying it all out on the table. Writing for me and no one else. I don’t care who sees what I have to say so long as I can let it out. I miss blogging my life. Tumblr has just become a place where people re-blog pictures that are funny or things that they like. Isn’t blogging supposed to be more than that? I suppose the purpose to a blog is truly up to the individual.
i’ve never had one of these, i wonder why~
If you don’t see it with your eyes, don’t invent it with your mouth.
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
THE SECOND COMING
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
I miss him. My best friend. I hope he calls again. I hope I don’t miss my chance.