update in prose, how come it is finally here

What can I say about my up-coming 23-d year of life?

    I think I am happy…but how can one be sure about it?If one really was, would one write about it? 

The better part of  time I tell people how new practical I despise that grotesque type of self reflexion, that people tend to waste their time on, instead of work and making money and maybe some family quality-time. All that treasured corny verbiage and sham elitist yammering, that’s the cheapest sin and sickness of our century’s youth, don’t you think? It shits me the same way as a banal silliness, as the root is the same, but the vestment is much more hypercritical. Besides, the more I live , the more I understand , that silliness is actually very frank, if it is not pretentious, and thus even has its own childish charm. But in the light of that self-pity-and-self-praising-thoughtcrime-lifestyles , we put on air of obscure philosophers lost in the perishable idling crowd rattling about its terrestrial quests and yearnings, however being just another ugly kind of system’s miscarriage.

   Notwithstanding , whether I want it or not, this time of the year,I shall admit it , but also you can witness it here, I also fall a victime to this festering epidemic, as I I live in Paris and I’ve got quite a lot of free reflexive time as a bonus to my 350 euro/year travel subway card. 

When neither music and lit, nor even creepy entertaining habit of reading stranger’s out of context book paragraphes, has lost it’s beauty and primeval pleasure , I can’t help thinking. About  my plans, and solemn fears and what to prepare for dinner, and how I hate cold food, of course. At that rare pretty intimate moments, I can mostly sense that choices I am making everyday and those already made in last two years, which fruity consequences I reap on a daily basis . 

   Those choices leading to a person I am today(clearly snobby), to the place where I find myself (11 metres 650 euros/month closet-studio), to the people the time spent with whom I simply cherish(when they awfully enough seem to just tolerate it with pleasure from time to time).

It’s strange but I never doute them , though those are the same choices that brought me to this shitty life of all surrounding vulgar solitude. Well, nothing new, at least.  In all times, people living and born at the edge of two centuries were <marked up> by loneliness as a conscious choice (note my HTML reference). We choose big cities, one-person apartments, individualist type of jobs and long-distance relationships with individualists loving their lonely life in their one-person apartments, all because of our sociability and love for human race, of course. We have a divine fear of loneliness as a duty to our extroverts-orientated society, but we seek for it desperately, as we strangely have a basic need to be unhappy.

  For a contemporary person , to be loved and to be cared for is as uncomfortable as an itchy sweater. It may fit nicely,  it gives some warmth and everything , but it’s way too much of stuff unbalancing the deal, the steady life routine as we love it. Something we are ready to tolerate for its advantages, but only to a certain point in order to preserve our inner balance and harmony receipt. Aka good portion of healthy and safe loneliness to a dash of whatever it is waiting for us.

  So, absorbing and inhaling every inch of Paris breathtaking beauty and prices with student’s crazy time left for me, the one thing I really dream about during its solitary subway self-pity-and-self-praising-thoughtcrime-times, is the day I part from it into your solitude-loving arms, which maybe by this day will grow up to appreciate that bloody itchy sweaters.

Véro 

whilst in Paris