Reading a book, playing a game, scrolling through my Facebook and Instagram feeds-all of it is media that I consume on a daily basis. Regardless of where I am, and what I'm doing, it will have some loose connection to media. ![]() ![]() And personally, the daily dose of media I get everyday is really enourmous. Even this blog is a form of media that is tasked with deconstructing media. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.The common phrase amongst us high school critical thinkers is that "media is all around us." And that's true. “I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. In reality - these answers may never arrive. Will I ever finish scouring the inner workings of my mind? Will I find a soul to hold on to, to pour my self into? Dreams which I can’t help but feel are probably meant to stay just that - dreams. I sit at my desk in introspection, haphazardly flinging myself into purple-hazed dreams. There are days where the very essence of time seems but an illusion. “Hey, um, would you maybe want to get, uh, coffee together sometime?” A moment fleeting, yet dynamic, igniting a magnetic flow of energy. A momentary pause between hushed, breathy laughter and stories of past lovers. ![]() Perhaps, it will be the unexpected climax of a one-night-stand. “Hm, maybe we should start a two-person book club.”Ī shy chuckle and an exchange of numbers. I hear it’s on its way to becoming a best-seller. Perhaps, it will be an awkward grazing of hands and exchange of words in the aisle of a cramped bookstore. Accompanied by the sultry tenor saxophone of Coleman Hawkins, and the sweet serenade of a young Ella Fitzgerald: Perhaps, it will be a second glance in the corner of a smoky bar.Ī locked gaze amidst a sea of warm bodies and Yamazaki old fashioned’s. Whose story will color my own and perhaps lift me out of this bottomless spiritual well. How I wish to meet a soul who will invigorate mine. Yet, my soul is turned inwards, shooing away the unknown, growth indefinitely stinted. To detail every scintilla of ache and longing, every facet of dreams held dearly. Each vastly different from the next, yet united in a ubiquitous, ephemeral experience. How I long for a life of event, for a blurred sea of faces, voices, stories, all rushing through me like crowds on the platform of a grimy subway station. I am but a vessel of idyllic musings, doomed to the life of a hopeless romantic, in the truest sense of the term.Ī young Sylvia Plath once wrote, I am a victim of introspection. It’s an unhealthy habit but it’s 2 in the morning and I suppose these types of pondering are warranted at this hour. I think back to old friends, acquaintances, lovers, enemies (if there is such a thing anymore) and I try to imagine what they think of me now. My vocabulary escapes me at this hour.Īll I want is to fall into purple-hazed dreams and maybe not feel what it feels like to want and want so desperately that it stings. ![]() and I sit sullenly at my sad excuse for a desk, typing, backspacing, typing, backspacing.
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