It's my personality, I suppose, to be obsessed. Within me lies this blank canvas aching for an identity, a community, a purpose. And I find it for a few weeks -- whatever "it" happens to be -- but then I either grow tired or discouraged or bored and move on. It's as if I am a sprinter going for a marathon. I do wonderfully in spurts, but I can't seem to go the distance.
And that's why I change my hair often and often dramatically. That's why I experiment with various personas. That's why I'm drawn to religion and rallies and rituals. I want a passion, a direction, a focus. I want a reason, dammit! Instead, I roam. Forever and ever and ever. And yeah yeah yeah, it's about the journey, not the destination. Not all who wander are lost. Always question. Spare me.
Where was I going with this exactly? Oh right. Science fiction and fantasy. Can't quite get into them. Still gonna give them a chance. I'm tired.
The search continues, folks. My current, passing obsession is penny loafers and sensible slacks. I want to play it safe and clean for now. Maybe I need to befriend the blank canvas and see it as a strength. Who needs paint anyway? I don't even have any brushes. Yet.
This was a weird post. Here's a picture of a old people relaxing in chairs inside of a cave. I assume they're relaxing.
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