I feel misplaced. I feel confused. I feel vapid. It used to be that the intelligent men wrote novels. Now, the novel is commonly misjudged. Literature has been transformed to books varying from “Oprah’s Cookbook” to “The Clique”.
Isn’t literature supposed to enrich us? Isn’t literature supposed to create a thought pattern? Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment. That discusses feelings; I feel when I read.
The same goes for romance. Whatever happened to romantic moments in the rain? Why doesn’t the adolescent population do that? At least in the 80’s such a thing as dinner and a movie existed. Now it’s hook up with one person at a party, then hook up with another later that night.
It’s rare to find somebody. Especially finding somebody who loves music; the same music you like. There are so many types of music. There are so many types of people.
I hate knowing that I have so much more emotional capacity than my companion, but I cannot say anything. Like when at a supermarket the apples are lined up, but one is just so much juicier, bigger, sweeter, more sentimental, more worthy of your taste buds, than the scrawny apple next to it.
But sometimes I’m one of those people who pick up that scrawny apple.
Why? Maybe because I feel bad for it. Perhaps I care about the next lucky person who gets to find that delicious apple.
Suppose I change? Suppose I decide to change the slight, translucent corruption that has begun to transform society. I would not be able to do anything. Shall I remain morose?
Pleasantly speaking, encountering a sunset (or sunrise) or the occasional shooting star is that much better now. I am beginning to appreciate beauty of life much more now that it is so absent from my world.
The other day I came into my kitchen and there was an explosion of flowers. Colors, green, pink, violet, with those soft buds of theirs, and drops of water, clear, clinging to the flower before their rapid descent towards the ground.
But I guess the water was translucent too.