I like to make insidious efforts to avoid conflict.
I like to have strong opinions with nothing to back them up with besides my primal sincerity.
I like sincerity. I lack sincerity.
These are not opinions, these are not words of wisdom. This is a disclaimer.
A disclaimer for my lack of education, for my loss of inspiration, for my unnerving quest for affection and my perfunctory shamefullnes towards many who are of my relative age.
Its not even a poem.
Its just a big pile of shit like me.
In spite of everything I loved you, and will go on loving you—on my knees, with my shoulders drawn back, showing my heels to the headsman and straining my goose neck—even then. And afterwards—perhaps most of all afterwards—I shall love you, and one day we shall have a real, all-embracing explanation, and then perhaps we shall somehow fit together, you and I, and turn ourselves in such a way that we form one pattern, and solve the puzzle: draw a line from point A to point B…without looking, or, without lifting the pencil…or in some other way…we shall connect the points, draw the line, and you and I shall form that unique design for which I yearn. If they do this kind of thing to me every morning, they will get me trained and I shall become quite wooden.
Vladimir Nabokov, Invitation to a Beheading (via larmoyante)