you know,
i often dream of becoming a real recluse. i mean by choice, not under depression's duress. it would be pleasant, a sort of avoidant paradise. i dream of a time where i don't bother with outside fashion & really just truly dress as i wish. i usually picture this to be like an eskimo in warmer weather, feathered, no heels, a smudge of paint here & there. i dream of this blog being completely free & not under scrutiny of an audience. i hate writing for anyone but myself, that's just how things are. but i realize things don't have to be like that. it would be nice to be alone, in a quaint little town, with pretty nature-like things, & sun through the windowpanes, the most lavish bed of white fluffs, flounces, writing writing writing, dressing without a care, to fantasy's desire, breathing deeply, clearly, eyes aglow, & somewhere in there, for some reason, i fall in love with new york. in a way no one else has done so. at another point in time, i live a calm existence in an unknown village in europe, i may not know the dialect but we would make do with hand gestures, smiles, & furrowed brows.
that's it, that's it.
but, in a way.. i don't want to live in the world everyone else lives in. i want my life to be based upon, well,
simpler things.
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