about the talking fish

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Writer. Wheelman. Occasional DIY mechanic. Walking collection of hang-ups. Hopeless romantic. Old-school. Analog soul in a digital world. I am all of these things and more.

Monday, March 29, 2004

Transparent to all
Porous, permeable
Why must I be so?
Any action brewing in my head
Before its realization
Instantly predicated by disdain
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After all these years, I wish I had more of a spine.

I wish I always had the guts to tell people the truth about how I perceive them. I wish I always had enough confidence in myself to stand up for myself and my thoughts despite the jeers that inevitably come. I wish I could reach out and tell the special people in my life that I love them just the way they are, without coming off as insincere or sarcastic.

Yes, I am a wimp...and goddamnit, I wish I weren't.
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I got started on our thesis film's storyboard just last Saturday night. So far I've been trying my best to draw with details, like I usually do, yet draw in the shots I had in mind with speed.

I'm not so sure if what I'm doing works, but so far I've done 5 scenes out of 25. If the cells weren't so small, and if I had more talent and/or time on my hands (I'm poor at drawing backgrounds), I could probably envision my storyboard as some sort of long comic strip.

I remember watching some behind-the-scenes specials for The Matrix and I was flabbergasted at how detailed the storyboards were. It was as if some top-flight comic book pencillers and inkers got to work on the blank cells and presented the movie's scenes almost exactly like we all saw them on the silver screen.

I sure can't come close to doing anything that marvelous!
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I guess I have to be honest: I'm pretty bad at keeping secrets to myself. It's not that I tattle on others (I almost never tell on other people's secrets). It's just that the things I keep hidden from others are the ones that tend to eat at me inside like some proverbial can of worms. Most of these worms I keep within are all about myself.

There are times I wish I could just open up to friends and let it all out, in the hope that I might feel better afterwards. I guess I just got my hopes up too high though. I'm discovering the painful reality that in college, everyone has his/her own little world, where he/she is the center of it and everyone else is simply an actor playing some sort of part to his/her advantage. Sad but true.

I guess there's not much I can do to cure my eternal habit of talking to myself, then. Melancholic, I am.
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I admire how you think, how creative you are, how magically your spirit conjures up its ideas. I admire your refreshing taste in fashion. I admire your sense of humor and how amiable you are. I admire how calm and unruffled you are by the challenges you meet everyday.

Yet you do not want to be admired. You view it as a sickness. You desire and long to be undesirable...yet you are doomed not to be so.

If admiring you is a disease, I am afraid it might be one I may not recover from.

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