There are so many people out with babies. It's baby boom era. Buggy season.
People always look for one person to blame for everything. But life and people are far too complex, too bit-by-bit in account, for such a simple generalisation.
Conversations about politics, death and tragedy tend to upset me, I find. Maybe I resent life for its truth, its unpleasantness; that my comfy illusions are being shattered before my eyes and made complex as crystal fragments. Humour cures my lingering depressive episodes. Maybe I'm not as thick-skinned after all; I'm as much a victim of circumstance, a human meat sacrifice, as everyone else is. To lose control and meaning in life is horrible. Bleak. Black. Hollow. Fragile.
You don't know fear until you stare death in the face.
The eyes are the windows of the soul, of the mind. If that is true, then dreams are the mirrors of one's soul and mind.
The first time the freedom figurine on my bedside drawer was knocked down, a wing of the bird in the girl's cupped hands broke off. We glued it back on. The next time the figurine fell the whole bird came unstuck. We glued it back on the girl's hands, but in a slightly different direction. It faced west-north instead of straight ahead along with the yearning girl. It's almost as if the bird is trying to fly to another destination for its freedom. Might it be knocked down again? Try for another flight away from its ceramic prison? Or will the tiny bird fly too close to the sun like Icarus, and burn? Or smash into smithereens the next time, or the time after that?
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