The kind when you go to bed and back cannot be sure it really happened and not for a lack of effort to sharpen the nails at the brain's temple scraping for some bright memory of hollow significance but for how empty it was.
Life's sequentialism is in celluloid colourless; moments left to fill in with the qualia of meaning coated in something flammable and prone to damage.
Sometimes memories are the most important things we have left and we are to leave. We put ourselves in them in pieces and let other human beings we let close enough to touch reconcile the details as fractured chronograms.
Like this piece for example: Even though the author is lost in identity but not presence we can rejoice their work twenty-four years later and even more.
And it's a very pretty dress, a very pretty drawing. It makes me remember of the daydream Daria had imagining a world prettified by 19th century overalls and a sister with whom she can confer and display affection; meditating on this we can infer that this is not an idea but a fantasy.
One where sororal acrimony dies and what now is there cannot be marred with enmity and discontent.
In the end, what I'm trying to say is don't push the wrong people away.
Works:
- "Is It Adulthood Yet?" chapter eighteen, by Halliwell_P (Spanish).
