I just can not believe the state of affairs sometime. The world sucks. I know that is so grunge 1990s plaid shirt "wah wah wah"cliche but it really does. Sure there are good things too; friends, nature, tv, books but I just read a horrible "why we hate SJP" in a magazine. I know I know it's just a magazine. In my defence..my sister bought it! But not for that purpose but it's really left a horrible taste in my mouth. Men are so bitchy! And I love the fact they can say things like we know you know she looks ridiculous really..so that's mind reader added to their list of talents then!
I just absolutely hate this passive aggressive or just plain aggresive behaviour I'm seeing in them nowadays. It's not just men, it's women too but women seem to have more empathy and I find men ..tricky. They can be very nice..when they want something. Hooah! ouch, thats harsh but really it says something when you're reading a book going why cant there be more like this in real life? You know just a good person but at the same time non cowardly.
I mean don't get me wrong, I don't need a man for the sake of it but I'd like to believe I'm not living amongst imbeciles.
I always laugh at the "new studies" about how men are oh so visual, sure I dont doubt that, and how they choose based on fertility and how we choose based on what we are like ourselves..they always forget the one thing though; soul. Not everything is "science" Not everything has to make sense.
Anyway a friend of mine gave me this poem and I wanted to keep it secret but it's kind of a pleasant little garden I can take a stroll in and emit (oh isnt that a word, who cares?) a very big sigh.
Lost in the forest...Pablo Neruda..
Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twigand lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,a cracked bell, or a torn heart.Something from far off it seemeddeep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,a shout muffled by huge autumns,by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprigsang under my tongue, its drifting fragranceclimbed up through my conscious mindas if suddenly the roots I had left behindcried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood---and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.