I've read it, read it again and I've um-ed and ah-ed over posting it. It feels like me when I read it, but honestly, I just don't believe I did. Perhaps I wrote it in a angstful steam of consciousness , or on a really emotional day many years ago, but maybe I didn't. I've decided to post it under the strict disclaimer that if someone can come forward and claim it as theirs, I will most certainly give credit or remove it, but I still thought it needed to be shared as it gives me mega feels.]
Today I am a product of my own society.
I am in control of my own being and I create the world as I see fit. I am Jack's complete lack of originality.
Stay gold, Ponyboy. Stay within the confounds in which dreams are created. Today I am all I can be and I travel super highways of greatness.
My heart slurps up the creativity of those who pass by, pumping greasy toxic joy through to my toes. I'm left with a sugar high that exceeds the expectations of my own capabilities.
Today is the first day of the rest of my life, and the day after that and right through till Tuesday fortnight.
Find yourself, lose yourself while wandering in the sea of wants and hopes, only to drown surrounded by a school of possibilities.
Today I am Twitter's accountability.
A void of everything and nothing, which when mixed tastes of unicorns and Santa Clause. I live in The Real World. I am a Real Woman. I wear a status bikini that is witty and sarcastic and underwear the colour of a time that never existed.
I look for my label, so I can be placed in the right gallery and observed and analysed, reviewed and revered. I fear being categorised incorrectly, resulting in the hype of hyperbole. So I watch the movie instead.
Today I am an non-practising human being. I am lost and never found, can't be found as all are lost. Living, loving, lusting, losing in my own holodeck.
I am a victim of my imagination. The imagination brought on by an overdose of too much fucking information. We can be anything, which creates a perpetual motion machine that mimics life, never noticing that we died out years ago.
I think I am happy. I think I am sad. I fly through space and touch the stars and each one goes out, but luckily someone took a photo and tagged it on Facebook. My memories are rosy pieces of someone elses leftovers.