Something about Orange County...it's a time machine
I let the roaring of beaching water mute these thoughts; oh these debilitating and unrelenting thoughts. They brought with them the sort of feeling associated with nails on a chalkboard, or for less of a platitude, a paper cut under the nail, so perfectly obscure. I've just passed the monument of my 4th year in this godless city. This time frame bares a superficial feeling of brevity. Considering the scale of time i have left on this terra, it is an immense occupation of time. At the age of 25, I can feel the slow progression of life and lack of return of my endeavors disconcerting. I hate the beach. I come here because...Because I live here. A vacation destination for a major part of the world. A haven/ oasis from the bullshit. Can one be miserable in heaven?" The rhythm of the ebb and tied matched my mind's thought-cadence. My thoughts always return to deprecation, even in such a tranquil setting. It helped, the sound of the waves that is. That and the gram of weed searching for a neuroreceptor to call home. I was just that, intoxicated in what sort of fashion influenced the desired "feel". I accepted that. We ask ourselves in a perfect situation, how more can I galvanize this bliss? How can i truly appreciate the sublime sensuality? Drugs, idiot. And so I found myself: self-loathing pity. Someone revoke my right to existence. Donate my idealism and abstract thought processes to University; study the suburban privileged effect. The sweat of immigrant parents translates to entitlement, but in the defense of mine dishonest host, the joys of sensuous pleasures is far too alluring to let my resilient youth go untested. So I gaze at the requiem of the day, the shades of Orange, a tantamount visual for the warm evening. I don't deserve this moment yet I steal it away.
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