Window A

If I were a superhero, I would want to be able to a) have a perfect memory, b) be psychic, and c) be capable of teleportation. Which just reminds me of the anne mccaffrey rowan books haha. which i loved. even if they may seem completely cheesy and corny now. "Gestalt" forever bears the shade of interplanetary teleportation.

I've had a nervous stomache (it does look more respectable doesn't it) for more than a day now. there's no rhyme or reason. but I can place one of the major parts of it in my bedamnable slow-of-wit/quick-of-shame social skills. And here I thought that one of the few advantages of outgrowing adolescence was the confidence-growth bit. instead i find myself constantly categorising myself in the plasterdogbythedoor category and hating every minutesecond of it.

There are few things worse than not being able to feel comfortable about one's limitations in life. the grass is indeed greener on the other side. actually, the grass is on a scale of greydull to luscious green and who wants to be just yellowgreen.

I wish i knew for sure. There is a certain tragedy in the reality where there is no way of knowing the alter. The silences I interpret are simultaneously overlaid with realityB. The second/triple/quadruple guessing of disgust, disappointment, restraint, impatience, annoyance, could be complete fiction or a manifestation of my superb psychic abilities. I dip my toes in, and pray that a beneficent whale with a flick of its tail will engulf and draw me in inexorably into the depths of the midnightrich waters. But the pond won't fit a whale.

I colour gray. grey. gray. dullard indefinite indecisive grey. humans are very poorly designed creatures. All i want to do is sit in certain warmth in definite technicolour. I don't mind slight scratchiness, but i need a whale.