I'm not really bringing xanga back.

I felt so entertained.

There they sat, mourning the pathetic and early exit of a near stranger.  All seemed solemn, until they realized who it was they were thinking of.  Notions were presented; the speakers and listeners fell both into their fitting seasons.  No one attempted to slip between or forge a silence.  While one side asserted that it only expressed singular truth, the other insisted that lack of courtesy rendered the professed facts iniquitous.

Is our societal call to stand by our opinions--which is often so fully enforced in the developing years--meant to be waved off when sophistication comes into play?  I might suggest that it is--though I couldn't believe it concretely and I would presume that my suggestion of it would be solely inverted--but I have trouble imagining these particulars thinking thus.  However, their secondary reaction to a seemingly less moderate and fraudulent view followed the suit of so many Eloquents before them.

Most are so clearly conniving while others are simply too kind to be believed.  They act so righteous as a group, but they're really just as catty as the rest of us.  Experience leads them to think that we all want to hear judgement.  Innocence softens insult and paraphrases it as criticism.

The usual plans have changed, and my chances will follow suit.

I dreamed of him.

A wandering ghost, he seemed more lost than anyone would have hoped.  He stood in the middle of the corridor with searching eyes that had long ago clouded with age.  At the time of the dream, I was only happy that I could see him once more, and know that he resided in a place where he would be thought of.  However, the memory of it is sorrowful.  The distracted agony rotates slowly in the dry air of a curtained recess.  Perhaps, I owe this to the fact that I did not wholly mourn him; I did not allow him to be separated from the aura of house and home.  Then again, neither did they.

Her, I mourned.

This reaction, of course, was more expected.  A death of social magnitude, her's was the sort which one would hope and expect other's to think upon and feverishly question.  Even with thoughts of form put aside, the manners of passing were so very apart.  Whilst his death was timely and rather expected, her's was a jagged tearing away of possibilities.

Seeing beyond the pictures I carry, hearing more than the words spoken at a funeral, I will remember and miss you.  Theresa.

"I can't stand this."

A common response to a lack of domination over one's surroundings, most often used as a conscious overstatement.

Though this trite cliche enters and swims about my mind, I cannot determine what it is that I am refering to, what it is that I feel I am unable to tolerate.  Attempting to pinpoint the exact subject or source seems impalpable, as if the very idea of trying to do so only adds to the list of fragmented words and thoughts from which I must choose a "problem."  Upon a mobius ribbon of doubt and paradigm, question and answer chase each other in an endless ring, covering every available surface without altering course or reaching conclusion.

Yet one question seems aloft:  Why now?

Not only do I ask this question out of aggitation, but also because I cannot perceive enough ill difference in the doings of today, compared with those of a month ago.  It could be a thing of the seasons, as it has been before.

Tomorrow, summer will become lusciously tenacious.