18 April 2012
I have this need to write, even though I rarely have a reason to write, or anything to write of. Just the need. So I write, I write quotes of philosophical statements I don't fully understand, I write sentences in languages I don't speak and don't understand more than that one sentence I have memorized. I quote songs, poems, movies, books, sometimes even myself.
And I write these everywhere, on pages of my diary, on tables, on steamy windows; everywhere.
And you know what? I like it. I know these words won't last, my diaries will end up in a pyre or recycled, the tables will be cleaned, the steam will disperse and the windows will become clear again. But still I like to do it, because, for a moment, I feel like I'm more than a speck of dust in the infinite emptiness of space and time.
Pretentious Usage Of Fine Words • Opuss № I