Talk

Talking is as useful as pacing around a room in circles. But when five gibbers some gibberish, five may actually genuinely feel what five is gibbering about. It's raw, unfiltered passion that it sprouts though it might be absolute rubbish. It's just like eight who's saying it wants to escape. Escape? Escape to where? Eight is shackled by society, but who is going to provide the key? There is no key. There is no escape. Eight knows that. Eight knew that. Yet he whines about going to another world, of jazzy pastures, idyll wind and the lounging sun. Not some smog congested garden city. It often wonders where the flowers in the garden are. To harbour such a preposterous thought is mental suicide.

But after hell freezes over, it runs back to earth seeking death. 

We often think of the world in concentric circles. Everything happens for a reason and hence everything does not happen for a reason. What is real is not real. History repeats itself, though disguised. Maybe we are just reliving history. Maybe there is another person here, light years ago, typing this on her macbook named ryan, procrastinating on doing her history essay (what's new), and predicting her stress level ten minutes from now, listening to james blunt crooning about nineteenseventythrees singing here we go again. 

exactly, here we go again

and another person doing the same thing light years later

wouldnt that be nice (: