The night is calling, and the fleecy clouds that adorn the stark sky are soon closing in over the round moon. Out in the marsh, I see a dark horse galloping steadily toward me. There on his leather saddle lies a little sack of maybe heroine. Should I climb him up, and ride with him, and ingest all the substance in that sack? Or should I not?
I need answers fast.
I feel like giving my baby (my site, really!) a complete makeover – sort of. I feel like emblazoning all over her critical reviews of movies, and drama, and whatever else that has to do with performance and the eclectic arts. There are two actions here involved – not only reviewing, but also writing on those reviews. I do not have any intentions of discontinuing other topics that are currently in progress. I feel like adding other subjects into the cocktail, things like feminity, and fashion, and dancing, and music, and dreaming, and the science of happiness and all things positive. If it were dancing, I definitely would write on hip-hop. Or any kind of dance. It does not really matter, does it?
It was dear old Socrates who had once upon a time mentioned that the unexamined life is not worth living. Life is a never-ending piece of examination, isn’t it. It is never static, for life is but a winding river gushing with water. It overflows into a whirlpool of information – and overpowered by the enormous strength of the currents one is swirled in together, consumed in all, for once, of its magnificient omnipotence.
Oh well. That is because I am doing it too. Question is, should I divert my attention to another site, or should I just remain here zapping my Bazooka thoughts, under the pseudonym Red Scarlet?
My brains have been dehydrated of words like a burning desert in dire need of water, the brown earth caked hard in the excruciating heat. It is extremely thirsty of whatever that quenches its – what? I feel like grabbing firm hold of a shovel, losing control like a crazy word-o-maniac, and continuously digging all the way down, and down, and down, until it reaches the intoxicated id. I feel like revealing its naked, provocative truths to the surface of the superego, out of the frontal lobe – where dreams meet reality.
Oh. I just feel like. I hope you hold your horses.