Measured Mortality

Hello people,

I write this post in a room where second-youngest person is roughly twice my age. Two ladies are seriously discussing the apparently modern trend of fitted clothes that leave nothing to the imagination. Seriously. One of them has just asserted that it is likely the trend has come from France. I feel like this is too funny to be real. Too stereotyped for these people to be anything other than old hammy actors.

I feel comforted by my youth. I use it as an alibi for feeling insecure and making foolish choices. I think how happy I'll be when I'm fifty and I know longer worry about everything and I feel comfortable in my own skin. But what if that's a mirage? Perhaps I should poll this room full of sexa-/septa-/octogenarians and see how many among them are still riddled by the pains of existence.

Really I've just never known love.
Love would help I think.
Someone with balm for hands and words that say "You are not alone. I am here with you." But not Michael Jackson.
I administer drugs to fragile bodies on a daily basis. Bodies like the bodies in this room, and also like Michael Jackson.
It's like cleaning the windows on a house of cards.
What I'm saying is: I could kill someone today. If I had the inclination. Not that I'm saying that. You know, not that I'm saying Michael Jackson was killed.

Why do I need to know why leaves fall from trees? Their growth and their life are beautiful. They then litter footpaths with crispy golden goodness. But the most fascinating thing is the fall. The seconds in which the fall occurs. The sever, the fall, the stillness.

Death I've seen with my eyes. Love I've seen with my eyes. Surely a real experience of one or the other will visit me soon.

Is this a morbid blog? I'm sorry if it is.
The next post will be about slapstick and puppies. Promise.

-Yuri