i've always wanted to write a story or a novel before i died. in fact, it's on my bucket list. whether it gets published later on or remains hidden from the public, carefully tucked away beneath the pages of one of my journals is a non-issue. what is of import is that i did get to write it.

i've had the notion of calling it "songs about jane". something about a whole trimester's worth of listening only to maroon5's first album which was named as such, the coincidence of my messenger id being maryjane_doe11 of which during that time became a a medium of life-turning series of conversations. true to form, i'm thinking of naming each chapter after a song in the album. of course, it goes without saying that the tone of the chapter would more or less have some sort of pun or relation to the title of the song. symmetry and all that.

well, that has been the plan.

a friend of mine writes better when he's drunk. inspiration in a bottle and calories to boot. how convenient. how i wish i had something of the sort.

impossible

You. Him. Her. Them. They. The absence of Us. All of that does not matter because in truth, there is only I. I am the only that truly matters.

1 or I what is the difference? Anything unattempted remains impossible.

time lapse

and now the clock ticks for me again and the hiatus is broken (and i hope, done). something as simple as cleaning the bedroom and rearranging the furniture does that sometimes. now that my mind is free of clutter and everything is in order. each in their own carefully labelled, lidded box. i trudge on through life or something like it just as i see it through rose tinted glasses.