I need to get out more.

The rules have changed. In decades past, it used to be considered vulgar to use exaggerated language, to overdo emotions and adjectives. That was before the word ‘awesome’ became ‘AAAAAAAAAWWWWWEEEEEESSSSSSSOMMME’
I like to abuse language. What’s the point in having a vocabulary if all you do is whisper tiny nothings like ‘nice’, or ‘pretty’, or ‘good’? I like authors who aren’t afraid to take a passage of writing, dress it up in full fancy dress and then rip it all off again in the space of a sentence, sometimes even skinny-dipping a phrase or two.

Having said that, I do appreciate authors who can take the verbal equivalent of three sticks and build a log cabin image with them. People whose prose is like staring at a field of flowers, or an expanse of sea until one tiny detail becomes highlighted and exposed, all the more beautiful for the way it stands out in the utter sameness of its surroundings.

So in two paragraphs I’ve managed to put forth two contradictory arguments. That’s ok. The rules are flexible and mutable. Which is why I can do whatever I please. Yay Me!

So instead of saying I have a slight headache, I could say that I’m lost in the gabble of voices, the cacophony of the monkeys, angels and devils cawing and chanting out their temptations and refutations on each shoulder, the decisions being made after five different and needless arguments often based on nothing more than insecurities and the gutlessness that comes with being a non-rational adult, one whose life is framed and padded by whimsy and elation, rather than stern reflection and applied logic. The electron microscope of self-examination which ends in the exposure of feelings and self-absorption on the vast screen in front of my eyelids, the screen which seems to filter the evils of other people, reverse them and turn them into failings of my own. Lacking these ornaments of modern life, the technology, the complications, I become obsolete in my affections and my affectations. The sun scores a third-degree path across the inside of my skull, searing it’s way through organised thought, desiccating any attempt to reach out to others.

Just a thought. It happens sometimes. I need a bigger bass track in my head. The pace seems to be either too fast or too slow. Somebody switch on the metronome, so I can get outside my head, please.

Now. Let’s talk about you.