Could’ve been better.
Could’ve been worse.
i maded an update because somebody tolded me to
yes folks that’s right
the vandalized napkin is now officially a sellout
EATT MORE RADISH AND TOFU
why yes i made this at 2 in the morning, why do you ask
I wish there were ways to put into words all the strange, exhilarating, carefree, sad things you think about at 2:13 A.M., without making a fool of yourself in the morning.
There’s something I find extraordinarily calming about a blue sky replete with clouds: starched white ribbons, fluffed cotton balls playing charades, sometimes a foggy sheen fizzing over the golden dawn like foam on the surface of beer. Or a clear sky; those are great too. There’s something about the presence of this ball of lit orange gas that by happenstance sits just so far away from your lonely rock in the vastness of space, standing witness to its aura: the realization that life, your life, everyone’s life, all this existence wrapped in love and hate and joy and misery is the chemical byproduct of a bunch of flaming atoms playing pinball in the core of a star just so many millions of miles away.
(When I say I try to keep my Tumblr marginally more intelligent than my Facebook, this is what I mean.)
Because, let’s face it, like so many other things on the internet, Tumblr is what you turn to when it’s late on a school day and you’ve exhausted all other rational options.
(Translation: I might actually post things now.)
(But not right now.)
Yes, I know crossposting things from Facebook is a particularly poetic example of hypocrisy for someone who likes to get on a soapbox regarding so-called “lazy” Tumblrs, but a picture is worth a thousand words, and I figure my Facebook wall can spare 500 of them.
"Any religion is a higher form of superstition."
Lying awake at a quarter past two on a balmy, herbal summer night, mind trapped between the suburbs of New Jersey and the stone alleys of Shangqiu, marveling at the millions upon millions of infinitesimal choices heaped on the galleys of memory that have brought me to this point in space and time, the billions of individual discrete event-nexii converging and diverging like curves stretched taut on a graph, clotheslines strung across the pages of my untouched calculus textbook, each point, each intersection a different destiny, a whole new story that for the grace of an instant manages to transcend mathematical bounds.
In this universe delineated by blue, watery notebook lines, a voice speaks: The limit does not exist.
Time resumes its flow, sensation returning to my limbs. I feel a tickling sensation behind my nose, my eyes, an itch buried somewhere in the contours of my skull; I raise a hand almost absentmindedly to my face, and find myself surprised to see my fingers coming away red.