"..there's a paradox in every paradigm.."

we only speak in metaphors and parables
a clever concoction of conundrums
our fortunes told by lines on our faces
etched by furrowed brows
instead of smiles

...cut me open and count my rings...
they're just a barrage of angry sanguine tail lights,
streetlamp constellations,
and white lines on the road that keep time to the music in our heads
"...you're either coming or you just left,
but you are always on the way..."

...our age in crumpled coffee cups,
expired ink pens,
worn soles,
and mumbling, "star light, star bright" under our breaths...

"Hey. That's not a star. It's just Mars."

"Well, damn. What a waste of time."
___

Surprisingly, I'm not really depressed or in a bad mood. I just felt like writing. I'm just sitting around in the library in a squishy chair with a white hot chocolate, thinking about doing my homework and I pulled out my notebook that has a bunch of lines that really aren't tied together very well and decided to pull out some twine. The only things I'm missing are my hoody, headphones (GAH!), and my favorite spot. WHY DO PEOPLE ALWAYS SLEEP IN MY SPOT?!?!

Bah. I should do my homework.

Toodles!