Every few moments of assuming that your life will be the content of the greatest novel ever, there comes a Sunday when streaks of reality cloud your dreamy, kaleidoscopic view of the sky.
There is a difference between clouded judgment and classic tragedy, happiness and relief, and prolepsis and action.
I’m stuck in clouded judgement, relief and prolepsis, and I am not complaining. I like where I am- everyone needs their brew of happiness, my assumptions and my partially-real dreams are mine. Now to find a way to justify their existence and to be content with the life I see when the plaster of make-believe is torn off. I feel delusional, but something tells me I’m the happiest one here.
If I’m not making sense to you, I apologise- but this is my way of trying to sort my head.
To quote myself (oh the pompousness),
“More twists inside my head than the tangled curls outside.”
And, mind you, I have some VERY curly hair.