This is my Testament, my official View of Myself.
(or, What I Wish I Was)
It follows:
I like to think of myself as a thunderous, mind-altering creative force, a person that constantly challenges the way others think.
I would love it if I were fiendishly handsome, and pushed females to a realm of batty dimensia with my testosterone-oozing mien, that I was a reckless, unfettered soul that wandered through life without a plan, but a very clear idea of what I wanted.
I wish that I were better at what I do, that all the time wasted in idle youth could be regained (although, I suppose that I am not that old yet, and in all honesty, I will waste a lot more time in the limbo of uncertainty before I actually go through the motions of personal change and career decision.)
I would make a splendid artist, and my art would astound the viewer with the simple-yet-intricate strokes. The curves would make the men ache and the ladies' hearts beat a little more rapidly. The proccess of creation would be like beholding the Work of Nature flowing from pen-tip. The feeling of creating something so masterful, so heart-wrenchingly beautiful, would be like heroin.
I could see myself being a dashing writer, with a cutting wit and a pen that could slay dragons--or vipers, I suppose, or whatever you will. I wish that, as the years passed, folk of a more literal bent will still be reading my prose, using it as the mythical yardstick that One Uses To Measure All Others. The writing, I can see it now--sharp, darting, the dialogue a rapid-fire parry and riposte that would leave the reader wanting, craving, for more, that they may live in this rich, pithy world, and, O, it is so much more realistic than reality. It is the world that every author eats and drinks, breathes and exhales in.
I wish that I was more modest.
I hope that someday, I will be driven enough to achieve these daunting goals.
Good Lord, I may have set unreachable goals for myself.
But only time may tell, I suppose. For now, I will gaze upon the works of the Masters, pore through the volumes of the Bards, and hope, someday, to join their ranks, whether it be in Louvre or Library.
fitter happier more productive
comfortable
not drinking too much
regular exercise at the gym (3 days a week)
getting on better with your associate employee contemporaries
at ease
eating well (no more microwave dinners and saturated fats)
a patient better driver
a safer car (baby smiling in back seat)
sleeping well (no bad dreams)
no paranoia
careful to all animals (never washing spiders down the plughole)
keep in contact with old friends (enjoy a drink now and then)
will frequently check credit at (moral) bank (hole in wall)
favours for favours
fond but not in love
charity standing orders
on sundays ring road supermarket
(no killing moths or putting boiling water on ants)
car wash (also on sundays)
no longer afraid of the dark
or midday shadows
nothing so ridiculously teenage and desperate
nothing so childish
at a better pace
slower and more calculated
no chance of escape
now self-employed
concerned (but powerless)
an empowered & informed member of society (pragmatism not idealism)
will not cry in public
less chance of illness
tyres that grip in the wet (shot of baby strapped in back seat)
a good memory
still cries at a good film
still kisses with saliva
no longer empty the frantic
like a cat
tied to a stick
that's driven into
frozen winter shit (the ability to laugh at weakness)
calm
fitter, healthier and more productive
a pig
in a cage
on antibiotics
Radiohead.
I edited my profile with Thomas' Myspace Editor V4.4
