We salute you, oh half-inflated devil lord!

School is done and I am now 22 years of age. Interesting. I really have nothing more to add right now, though I shall leave you with the musings of someone who is infinitely wiser than me and who's words mean a great deal to me.

Will you come and what will I say
Oh I have been so distant and unhappy
Like I could disappear

When I was a boy I saw things
That no one else could see
So why am I so blind at twenty-two
To the hope that is all around me
Filling up this room

On the road on my own
Waiting for the words to fall from your tongue
Into my ears

When I was a boy I could hear
Symphonies in seashells
So why am I so deaf at twenty-two
To the sound of the driving snow
That drives me home to you

Cheers y'all.

Sappy derivative nonsense

I've felt really hollow these past few days. My existence has been reduced to nothing more than sitting in my apartment and writing papers. Now that's all fine and dandy, I'm a student and that's what students do I suppose. I simply feel uninteresting; I have no great stories to tell, no charming or quirky anecdotes to relate... even the one about how I got this scar above my eye is getting really fucking boring to reiterate. Am I just exhausted? That doesn't seem quite right somehow. I would think a large part of it might be related to my activities as of late. Sure, there's school and that takes up a whole heap load of my time. And then there's... well, nothing much. I'm trying really hard to love Montreal, to belong here, to feel like I've actually created something for myself here. But truth is, I haven't really. I haven't contributed to this city in any substantive way and that irks me considerably. Also, it should be of note that what I wrote back in December is still true today: by and large, I am alone in this city. I barely have any friends and, moreso than before, I believe it's starting to get to me. What might anger me even more is the idea that I won't even get the chance to rectify that problem right away. I'm moving back to Ottawa in less than a month to work some government drone position that'll result in me making mad cash. But I'll just be delaying this painfully long adaptation process even more, and such a thing is frustrating to me. Fuck, I feel dried out. A prof commented on one of my papers a few weeks ago that my writing isn't as fresh or dynamic as it was before Christmas. That actually really got to me. I think he's right, but I definitely lack the means to fix the problem. I want too though. It seems so imperative to me that I get back whatever it is that I lost. I also strongly doubt that, as some people have suggested, time off and a bit of sunshine are all that I need to set things right. I don't know, it seems kindof wrong to attribute such messianic qualities to a time of year. Oh and fuck off, I'm not going anywhere with this. Il pense trop et ne dort jamais assez.

My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder...

He just hopes he was able to make even the slightest impression. He sinks in his seat. His hands typing at the keyboard seem paler and bonier than usual. He wonders how long this entry will be, a few lines or a few paragraphs? He rolls his eyes reading the previous phrase, knowing full well that his eyes are twitching shut because of fatigue and that he has to get up early in order to type up an article. He gets annoyed when the same word is used twice in a phrase. He misses pale shadows cast by dried up roses in juice glasses. He also misses something else, but he has too much pride to write about it. It's a shame he's completely see-through.