puellarina's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- possible ataraxia 2004-03-18 - 1:23 p.m. possible ataraxia God, don't you get tired of her. This girl, with the Sylvia Plath hair and the Drama. "He doesn't love me anymore", she whines, she cries, delicately like a flower producing dew. This is her nature, her magic. Unlike the other flowers, who wait patiently for the dawn to arrive and bless them with those rare droplets that are too pure to come with the rain...she produces her own. How amazing, they eat it up, this parlor trick. She sweats and bleed and drools sadness. Where does she get it all? Carnival freak. Everybody else is running around dry and fine, suffering is a rare oppertunity to rest their tired joy. But this girl is never dry, her joy always getting it's beauty sleep, it emerges from the stench of another smoldering armegeddon. So pure and youthful, that you can't blame her. The poor, weepy wretch explodes into sweet bell-like laughter whenever tragedy is complete. It's such a rare and beautiful sight. You want to give it to her again and again. To see her pale face aglow with that fleeting, impossible ataraxia. 11:01 a.m. - 2004-05-11 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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