Tealo

It's been awhile since I've written anything of value, which is peculiar for one so interested in the world and fictions, and disposed to capture them in little black letters. If anything could fail to be contained within words though, it's the world today--I fear that some flavour of Anarchy is looming and eating the structure of our laws and order from beneath, like some cleansing rot. We've sunk in a horrible place and I feel we are fated for recycling. And yet, there's some solace in that rebirth, since at the end of one cycle the next begins. Days come and go, and I've been absent for far too long, and even if I have no audience, it feel

This is an old and staggered account, but it remains me. It's funny, looking back on how my interests have changed and scoffing at what I once held as my favourite topics. It amuses me that I still find some pleasure in remembering how I once was, even as I recognize how I've changed in the time since. Beautiful things remain beautiful, seasons leave and return in the fall, and as I grow older, I feel less like a 21-year-old college student and more like a 50-year-old monk who's out of his element, thrust into a different body and life, and slowly becoming accustomed to the world again. I belong elsewhere, but here I am. Hello :3

It seems like I always act in the same way, and all that differs is what I'm acting in accordance to--I overthink and overanalyze to the point of binding myself. I wait and wait and wait--I'm gifted with patience, but that's about all I can say; things and people keep passing me by and I don't do anything to stop them or make a move in pursuit. I wrote a poem once about wings of ash, and a song another time about wings of stone--part of that's just my obsession with wings, but I've never felt more stone-like in my life. And yet I'm fine with that, however strange and perverse that sounds. I make efforts to coordinate things and reach out to