Life, it seems, is in the current state of bedlam. My life, obviously; all other's lives are intertwined, I guess.* If I could be so bold as to use the age-old classic (something is a 'classic' if one uses it, and a 'cliché' if one abhors it's use), it resembles my room - it has the appearance of a pandemoniac disarray, but has a loose structure and order. The same notion can be concluded for my state of mind, I'm afraid.
*Perhaps it is to Solipsism we go. Again.
I'm starting to feel strangely content in my chaos: we see a spider web twisted and deformed in the breeze, scattered and Mephistophelean; the spider sees hope.
Footnote A: I'm glad that I'm studying Psychology this year: I'd like to know why I brought spiders - the zenith of my worst fears - into my life-assessing monologue. Hmm. Well I guess it suits: I know I've got to place my metaphoric hand into the metaphoric jar of metaphoric spiders and metaphorically roll it around for some time, but my literal trepidations stay my metaphoric hand.
Footnote B: I like footnotes. I like that the bulk of my idea isn't in the initial (confused, nonchalant, hieroglyphic and often times puerile) notion, but in the footnotes - the walls that fence in my thoughts and tell them to stand in line.
Arachno-Ethan.
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