Ankst
Stop telling me to stop thinking, because I keep thinking about not being able to stop thinking, and thinking that even if I think I'm not thinking, I'm still thinking that I'm not thinking, and then instead of stopping thinking, I stop to think about whether thinking about not thinking counts as thinking, and whether you can really stop thinking without thinking about stopping thinking, which means, surely, that you never stopped thinking in the first place...
...I think.
Life's vicious at the moment. A while ago, good things happened to me, and a while later, bad things happened to him, and right around now, the paradisial snowglobe is cracked, and set to shatter around us.
That sentence, incidentally, is about four months long.
I keep telling myself that neither good things nor bad things happen; things happen, and you can call them what you damn well please. But my perennial optimism is on hiatus in America, where it's probably been cannibalized by the uncivilized natives (exempli gratia id est, George of the Bush).
And with exams barging towards me, my tolerance is as fragile as those daddy-long-legs that are constantly besieging my room. I know they are fragile, because they die instantly when I flatten them between my Spanish dictionary and the wall. The little demolished corpses smudging my walls are a constant reminder of the delicacy and transience of life, so they have died for a Noble Cause, i.e. to sustain my existential epiphanies. Now really, who wouldn't die to die for one of those?
I'm too distraught for a conclusion of any sort, so this will have to suffice.