A precipice of precincts that surrounds my being and my dreams. I do not know if they crumble, cross-multiply or carve on into new forays. However, they do change.
Completely.
Whether or not 'change' is a good thing, is a question I believe I am doomed to evade forever and whether or not that will 'break me' or 'make me' is something I am cursed to cope with. However like a dilapidated patch quilt I am oblivious to the new patches that will grace my old posture. Living in the brundt of my dreams, fading in the slow malencholy of hazy sleep and wallowing in the self-effaced characters of my own conscience is definitely not productive or practical. But it seems impossible to dodge.
I wallow now, consciously and consciencously in my depracating, dilapidated demons. For I blame all my failures and flaws on silver-screen sabbaticals and merry melodies. I blame, without guilt, the hollywood dreams and the silverscreen screams that barricade my being from quietly accepting and adapting to the bitter salt tang of reality. I blame every myth from taking away my will to say yes to "can be's" instead of "could have beens".
I blame them.
I blame them with all my head and none of my heart.
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