carolinecouture
Despite. I have not a clue. Despite my want to learn, I do not want to study, at least these subjects I have chosen. I want to learn photography, but despite my efforts, I'm into something else. Despite it all, I still haven't traveled to Paris or any part of France. Yet.
I don't know what it's to be alive. Only through going to different places, to leaving it all behind and giving yourself new responsibilities, lives to live through language, through reinstitution, re putting yourself into a routine.
Or is it as the books say, that you don't need to go anywhere to find yourself, just that you need to think in yourself and become yourself. I still don't understand that yet though. I though it struck me once, but now I'm lost again, and unalive in a place that once was new, but once again has grown old and destitute, a routine of dolor. Not alive.
here I am. or so I think I am. I put my sunglasses on. I cannot see in the bushes. The slightly reflective path is all I see. And I block out the other people's judgement. That I wear these glasses at night though I can perfectly see. It's something about being blind, or pretending so, than makes you invisible and noticed at the same time. It's like when you were a child, covering your face with a comforter seemed to hide you from closet monsters, but you really knew they would find you anyways.
Even if they don't exist.
I've already had painted soon enough, this word it means so much. If you say an image is worth a thousand words, then one word is worth so much more. Painted is a set of images put together. You can imagine a white walled room being painted, fresh oils, transparent watercolours.
Oh purple painted paisley fabrics so scattered about the pure white room, shiny indeed and clean, these frayed edged fabrics were to be used to constructs dresses large hulking heavy dresses of window drapes.