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Today I set fire to a tissue. In the kitchen. My dad promptly told me to evacuate the premises (though using somewhat less eloquent, more profane phrasing). By this time the tissue was fully ablaze in my hands as I burst into the hallway in state of euphoria that quickly deteriorated into the abrupt realization that the smouldering remnants were attempting to devour one of my fingers. I swiftly dropped the fiery ball on the (wooden) floor, where it continued to fester for a few moments before it finally disappeared with a grumpy crackle. Good god. The scent of burning skin still lingers on my slightly scarred finger.
I often feel compelled to performed random acts of madness, out of the sheer desire to do something completely bizarre. It’s a personality trait of mine. Until recently, I’ve been fairly successful in suppressing these urges, but as of late I’ve realized my life is far more interesting if I follow these insane notions. I’d like to take this opportunity to, for the umpteenth time, apologize to my girlfriend for thoughtlessly breaking her shelf in a desperate attempt to perch on the top of her wardrobe.
About a month ago I jokingly professed my love to the photography teacher, promising that I’d write him a love poem. The man kept me to it- and what I reluctantly produced, astonishingly, was not a Shakespearean love sonnet, but instead the following: http://tonnan.wordpress.com/the-dark-artist
A week or so ago, I looked back on that poem and I suddenly realized why I’m doing this. Writing is an escape for me; it functions as a brief interval in reality where I can reflect on the amusing moments in my life (filtering out the shitty, stressful and sad bits). It’s effectively the only place you’ll ever find a record of who I am, and who I was. And that’s a beautiful yet scary thing.
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