Prose that may be too bland or too blue;
Random stories that may or may not be true;
All penned by Alice in her times of loneliness;
They shall aid the mind and heart of the restless.
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Round and round, the world goes. Little things, great things, cruel things—everything repeats itself. Should I rejoice with this truth? Should I be glad that happy moments can happen again? Or should I be sad? Because if the former were true, it would mean that bad memories can repeat themselves too. What shall I do with this paradoxical complexity?
The sun comes up, and the sun goes down. Every single day is a fucking deja vu. The same thing over and over again with the same people, in the same place, at the same time. I’m so tired of doing the same old shit.
I wonder if this will ever change. Where is the rarity in this dull life filled with typicality? Where can I find the rare, special moments that everybody seems to have experienced except for me? When everything happens again and again and again, what can I do to change it?
Round and round, the world goes. Let it be. I let it be. I open my arms wide, and I let my body be pliant as the winds of change carry me through another day—as I wish, once again, for a taste of rarity.
