Everything is so slow and ponderous, how can we be excited when everything is so sad? I don't know why ponderous is ponderous it ponders everthing that is glass. Glass slippers, my mind are just as fragile as they, ready to shatter at the precise moment when it becomes most beautiful. Ponder the meaning of life, the universe, everything and 42 is the answer according to some, and freedom of speech to others, and some say that it's different for everyone. But if it's different then privacy exists for yourself and for me and it doesn't how can you say it does? Everyday my life spewed over the airwaves, held up for all to see and laugh. They think it's rubbish, like the rubbish heap of things they call my "talents". I am not talented at all, though, there's the kicker. And yet the ghosts of my fancy fly about and whisper that I am one of them, not truely alive, and sometimes I believe them. How can I not? It doesn't seem like I'm alive, even when I stand beneath the pine trees and feel the wind on my face, it's an illusion don't you see? None of it is real. If it were, we'd be happy, because this dream would is so perfect, as a reality, but it's not. it's my mind running wild as I sit motionless in the white room of truth and hear that my lies are too many. I cannot enter heaven. I am banished as a fairy to the earth, my wings so fragile, my body so tiny, and easily crushed beneath the hands and feet of careless giants. But I have to keep swimming, for isn't that the way of things? Never give up, slow and steady wins respect for that but not always the race. More often the quicker ones win the race, and the tortise is left to wonder what went wrong, for he knew the ending, but it never came. I hate it when the ending runs away.
First time. That was interesting.