Wednesday

Reddi – Perfect

Reddi – Perfect

Every mornin’ i'm struggling
Tryin’ to figure out where I fit in
It doesn’t make much sense
But after all it is
Look in the mirror and see my face
But something always seams out of place
As my reflection just runs away from me

If only I could dig deep inside
If only I could fly twice as high
If only I could be free
If only I could just give it time
If only I could learn from my life
I would see I’m happy with me

And I’ll be perfect, perfect
I’m gonna get it right
I’ll be perfect…perfect
In the next life
I’ll be perfect, perfect
I’m gonna get it right
Perfect…in the next life

I know you might criticize
And maybe even fantasize
About what I’d be like…if I were different
I don’t really think that is fare
But most people out there don’t care
I gotta make it up as I go…along

If only I could dig deep inside
If only I could fly twice as high
If only I could be free
If only I could just give it time
If only I could just realize
I would see I’m were I should be

And I’ll be perfect, perfect
I’m gonna get it right
I’ll be perfect…perfect
In the next life
I’ll be perfect, perfect
I’m gonna get it right
Perfect…in the next life

I’ve struggled hard
To come this far
Perfection I may not be
But I will always, always be me

So I’l be perfect, perfect
I’m gonna get it right
I’ll be perfect, perfect
In the next life
I’ll be perfect, perfect
I’m gonna get it right
I’ll be perfect…
I’ll be perfect…
I’m gonna get it right
I’ll be perfect in the next life
I’ll be perfect (if only I could give it time)
I’ll be perfect (if only I could get it right)
I’ll be perfect…in the next life…

Thursday

Dear Diary,

I read a book!
You can stop applauding!
I honestly can and do read…sometimes…
Anyway…I read a book…and agreed with something…get a grip and stay still for what I’m about to post:

I’ve heard that when one wrights in a diary, they are secretly hoping that it will someday be read and appreciated by others. But have you actually ever read anyone’s diary? I doubt it, because they are unreadable. If life is a meal, then diaries are the toilets in witch we shit out its vile remnants. They are litanies of complaints, grandiosity, and self-pity. There’s always the occasional happy entry, but they tend to be more beef. If my experience is any guide, the vary act of sitting alone in a room writing…flues misery! If you are happy you probably don’t have time to write for long periods because you’re somewhere barbecuing or having sex or whatever…Regardless of the tone of the entries, what diaries never contain is an interesting story, what people actually like to read!
I believe that diary entries are not written to be read. They're written to be written and then to be put in a drawer, eventually to be discovered by one's grandchild after one's death. At which point the kid will say, "Wow, I cannot wait to learn more about my grandparent by reading her diary entries, I bet they are fascinating." At that juncture, the grandchild will put the old diary in a box and go off to live her own life of self-created drama and, finally, will set pen to paper of her own diary, thinking she's commemorating the great drama of her life, when in reality she's recording only the most boring aspects of it. Unvisited tombstones, unread diaries, and erased video-game high-score rankings are three of the most potent symbols of mankind's pathetic and fruitless attempts at immortality. Not to be negative.

Ultimately, diaries are to writing what masturbation is to sex. The thoughts and fantasies that go through one's mind wind up in a tangible form, either on a sheet of paper or a sheet on your bed, and they should be quietly disposed of.
I should say that I'm mostly talking about the diaries of teenage girls. Teenage boys' diaries are different. They tend to read thusly:Dear Diary:I've been feeling so--oh, oops, look at this, I'm writing in a diary. So I guess that settles it: I'm gay. Thanks, Diary!

I tried writing my first diary entry as an actual grown-up, with an appropriately adult sense of perspective and balance.Needless to say, the exercise proved my theory: It's impossible to write a good diary entry. There's no storytelling in the whatsoever.
I began to get depressed. I strive to be a healthy, self-aware, fully actualized woman, and it seemed to me that reading what I wrote as a child was a critical step along the path to understanding myself. But there was just no fucking way I could read that garbage. Life is too short to be immersed in drab, repetitive prose that goes nowhere.

But unreadable prose is not the most shameful result of keeping a diary. It's also an extended lesson in becoming a stalker. Little girls spend their childhood composing countless passionate letters to a recipient who never once writes them back.


etc...next tine...

Friday

Subiectiv

Si iata-ne aici...iata-ne cautand flori in campul plin de maracini, iata-ne selectand printre buruieni pe cele ce ne-ar putea face viata mai frumoasa...iata-ne azi aici... Iata-ne desfigurandu-ne inimile in cautarea "ceva"-ului ce va aduce fericirea, iata-ne implorand mai mult, iata-ne furand din "buzunarele" goale, iata-ne alergand printre contradictii, iata-ne parafrazand ceea ce am ajuns a asculta si vedea, iata-ne uitand ca viata e un cerc si directiile pe care le luam ne pot duce acolo unde am mai fost...iata-ne azi tot aici...

Poate perceptia mea e putin diferita...si totusi viata asa cu o vad eu a fie...nu reuseste sa se intample... Dar privind cu ingaduinta...poate nu am facut altceva decat sa fim din nou copii, nimic altceva decat sa facem greseli pe care le-am prevazut, sa ne jucam irosindu-ne energia, sa imprumutam jucariile pe care nu le vom mai primi inapoi, sa stricam jucariile in liniste sau sa privim neputinciosi cum ceilalti le strica ...
Si iata-ne azi aici...presupunand prea mult, cantarim prea multe...pana si aerul respirat...iata-ne incapabili sa explicam desi vorbim prea mult, iata-ne incapabili sa spunem adevarul desi suntem sinceri, iata-ne ascunzand prea multe lucruri de noi insine...din teama,rusine sau dorinta de a uita, iata-ne ascultandu-ne inimile ce bat prea repede fara rost si nume...


Iata-ne la o varsta la care cunoastem limbajul, o varsta la care putine cuvinte ne sunt necunoscute, iata-ne trecand prin ani in care am rostit prea multe, in prea multe feluri asa cum simteam sau asa cum consideram a fi adecvat...iata-ne dupa toate acestea cum cautam prea mult timp ce sa spunem, cum




Iata-ne asezati confortabil in pat, iata-ne arzand si luand pastile cu pumnul, iata-ne gasindu-ne in situatii nu prea vechi, iata-ne ascultandu-ne vocile, iata-ne rememorand, iata-ne tacand si intreband... Cand anume a trecut tot acest timp? Cand anume s-au intamplat toate astea? Can anume ne-am intors aici?

What a beautiful mess, this is
It's like taking a guess when the only answer is "Yes"
Through, timeless words and priceless pictures
We'll fly like birds not of this earth
And tides they turn and hearts disfigure
But that's no concern when we're wounded together
And we, tore our dresses and stained our shirts
But its nice today. Oh the way it was so worth it.


You've got the best of both worlds
You're the kind of girl who can take down a man,
And lift him back up again
You are strong but you're needy,
Humble but you're greedy
And based on your body language,
And shoddy cursive I've been reading
Your style is quite selective,though your mind is rather reckless
Well I guess it just suggeststhat this is just what happiness is
Hey, what a beautiful mess this is
It's like picking up trash in dresses
Well it kind of hurts when the kind of words you write
Kind of turn themselves into knives
And don't mind my nerve you could call it fiction
But I like being submerged in your contradictions dear'
Cause here we are, here we are
Although you were biased I love your advice
Your comebacks they're quick
And probably have to do with your insecurities
There's no shame in being crazy,
Depending on how you take these
Words I'm paraphrasing this relationship we're staging
And what a beautiful mess, yes it is
It's like picking up trash in dresses
Well it kind of hurts when the kind of words you say
Kind of turn themselves into blades


Cause here, here we are,
Here we areHere we are [x7]
We're still here