Lately I've started to get those strange feelings again. I'm sure I've mentioned them before. They're like little nags of nostalgia, except I would accept that the nostalgia is less nostalgic and more expectant. It's very hard to describe it frankly. Sometimes I would say it feels like I'm in a book, stuck on a particular page that I'd hate to turn in case I lost that feeling of euphoria that a particular set of sentences inspired. Other times it reminds me of sitting in a newly refurbished room, suddenly aware of all the amazing things I could do with the new space. But really, I can only describe it one way, which is unfortunate because that way is so very undescriptive to anyone who has not had the pleasure of seeing through my eyes and thinking through my mind, and that way is thus: Streetlamps and Dusk.
I feel awfully static as of late. As if however much I seem to spur myself forward, the more I am pulled back. I feel ever more impotent in the face of an exceptionally average society which only leads me to the conclusion that I should have indeed chosen to find some place to build my hermitage in the forest.
I soon remember this is England.
I really should have been born in the goddamn rainforest.
Strangely, I'm feeling startled by those of late. Before they were mentioned, I'm sure. Those little nags of the nostalgic, expectantly accepting of it's nostalgia more or less. Frankly it's hard to describe.
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