This is my space. And for some reason it seems more me than my room. My room is completely devoid of personality, well it’s devoid of mine at least. But then, i often wonder whether i have a personality; and if i do, how much of it is original and how much is made up of different traits that I’ve stolen from people, or inherited from my dad and mum.
So here’s my theory (which has probably already been stated by someone or the other): that there’s no such thing as originality. We’re all a mishmash of thing’s we’ve inherited, or stolen. Maybe stolen is too harsh a word…let’s say taken inspiration from. As long as we’re sane, we’ll always be unoriginal.
And this thread ends here.
I was flipping through one of my diaries (this was before i knew how to blog :D) and i found this:
I do believe in miracles
And maybe love
It’s hard to be so cynical
So morose and so clinical
When every little cell within
Is screaming out so high
“You know you don’t believe you,
Why do you even try?”
It’s funny that I haven’t changed since i was 12.