Artificial beauty was created to mask flaws, to form a lie over the truth... Perfume to cover odors, spices to cure spoiled meat, decoration to exaggerate the bare. But it is far too mundane a task to be flawless. Why strive for perfection? Why be loyal and forgiving, oblivious in our delusion that the world cares if we laugh or cry?
I know the world doesn't give a flying fuck.
I know this short utterance of a paragraph will go unread by the majority.
I know I am but a speck of dirt in this lop-sided existence.
This does not bother me. Maybe that makes me crazy. I'm willing to be the craziest speck of dirt there ever was! I am happiest when crazed: dancing off into fantasy lands, yelling at invisible people, sitting in a dark room awaiting the monsters to take me away... All the while documenting it in pictures and writings and posting my whims.
Welcome to the loony bin. We have a buttload of Zoloft.