Been writing more than usual, lately. To keep my mind off things. It's cathartic no doubt, though it has nothing at all to do with the tragic. The tragic. Hah. This isn't tragic. That was a trifle faultline (trifle with reference to humanity minding their own business), a split-second, turn-table moment of animosity I admitted had no control over nor a warning. The tell-tale sign of Something Wrong: smoke from a car boot, the momentary blackout, the works. I would very much appreciate it if I had been warned beforehand, before the ash of Mount Vesuvius smothered my objections and attempts to explain.
It is exhausting, mentally and emotionally taxing and I'd rather not spend days on end dwelling on something so trivial, so...nonsensical and illogical and inconsequential (because of late they have become almost...common, a far cry from paper-doll possibilities and civility). What irks me is that I barely want to, mind you, as if I've nothing better to do than obsess weepy-girl-esque over a meagre papercut (the world awaits, my friend), but due to decidedly human tendencies to replay emotionally affecting events, I find myself dedicating at least a few minutes, glass palace-like, rerunning through the scene and deciding what went wrong and how else could it have happened differently.
See how it keeps me in a mood to write in veiled terms.
On the first count of an offense I'm oblivious to, a stern word would do more to warn me off the path I was taking. That I consider simple enough protocol. I will back off; I oblige in these ways where and when I see it. And when offence escapes me...could you blame me for sticking the pins in a little deep?
Maybe we ought to lay our cards out on the table, but that would remove half the fun. And some cards aren't as clear as metaphorical printed playing cards.
I am barely angry. Just a little annoyed at best.
Also fiercely pragmatic when it comes to pleasurable things.
