circlesneverend.

I’m listening to Sleeping With Ghosts by Placebo right now. That one song was my muse for half a novel years ago and it’s weird hearing it after I’d played it over and over again years back till I got sick of it. It doesn’t sicken me anymore, surprisingly, but it sounds as hauntingly amazing as it did in the beginning.

It’s songs like these, TV Shows like The OC and books like A Walk to Remember, Gone With The Wind and Fountainhead that  are responsible for my romanticized notion of life as they make everything sound so beautiful: love, hate, self-destruction, everything. It isn’t though. Life is more like this circle of bullshit, like, maybe A Catcher in The Rye.

I loved that book as well but reading it was torture, though disturbingly beautiful torture at some places though my head ached at others. Life’s like Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld which I couldn’t put down but every page filled me with dread as I knew where it was leading. We’re all doomed. Everything’s balanced. Misery is canceled by happiness but that in turn is balanced with misery. It feels like this endless circle and moving in circles, we all end up dizzy and ditzy.

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