Penchant for the delicate bubbles

I have a penchant for wanting the things I can never have or wanting the things I don’t necessarily need. I live for the challenge of the things that constantly elude me. I sound ungrateful sometimes, appearing to not pay attention to the things I have.

I am grateful and I am aware of the things I have. But I fear that when the challenge of the chasing leaves me I will cease to be. I will be the rational being the world wants me to be, the one who thinks before taking action or in my case, rather, to think less.

My current inability to organize my thoughts, to come up with logically sequenced paragraphs, an outline of the things I should be talking about, to be parallel, is something I have to endure, for now. I. hope.

My smiles are, more often than not, indicators not of my happiness but of an impending blow. A blow that can be shallow or deep that renders me useless once more. A blow that leaves me once again, the feeling, the romantic (lazy lunatic). And for the nth I’m gonna claim that this time I will not fall victim of that morphine drip, that this time I’m gonna face the facts, the truth. I appear as though I live my life in pain, constantly. I don’t.

I like to isolate the pain, to barricade it and place it in a bubble. Impenetrable, but to me. And around my bubble, I blow the little bubbles of my lies, fantasies, dreams of how things should have been.

So I guess, this smile I’m sporting for now is a welcome to my sadness.

I hope life proves me wrong.