The Leiry Loop

My life is all about this. It is all about walking when I do not want to, studying when I do not want to, talking when I do not want to. It is all about attempting to open doors when I do not have keys, and picking locks without any amount of success.  It is all about desperately trying to prove that Love is not present in a world that claims it as one of its cornerstones. It is all about the weather as foul as my complaints. It is all about skimming through my notes in an almost hopeless bid to ace an exam and attain the right to brag. It is all about squinting to see that which is yet to be seen. It is all about the value of the contents of a book. It is all about disproving the existence of Christ as the Son of God, and pointing out the Bible’s inconsistencies. It is all about looking “up, down, up, up, up, down, up” until the person beside me does a facepalm. It is all about killing time, mutilating boredom, correcting mistakes. It is all about using metaphors or the refusal to do so. It is all about typing a narrative without knowing its finale as my fingers beat the keyboard in rapid succession.  It is all about being impatient for the simplest of things, being patient for the worthless of things, being indifferent to how reality tricks me into believing that I am indeed indifferent. It is all about writing in English and not in my native tongue. It is all about despising Twilight. It is all about defining what definition is. It is all about sudden breaks—

My life is all about this. It is all about cynicism, irony, condescension. It is all about putting up with idiocy for the rest of my life. It is all about eradicating frustration by means of filling my stomach with French fries. It is all about pretense. It is all about liking someone that is spoiled, vain, too demanding but at times anything but; wondering if I just totalized that person, or if it is still normal for me to remain. It is all about the means of escape from the cruelty of what they call Fate. It is all about watching a horror movie with someone I can hold on to when I am too scared to look.  It is all about listening to my friend give justice to a story. It is all about hanging around in a hut as someone tries her best to sleep amidst my incessant chatting. It is all about my friend’s feeble attempts on entertainment. It is all about sweets wrapped in blue, pink, yellow. It is all about defying rules and making your own. It is all about contradiction. It is all about being a child for eternity. It is all about getting caught. It is all about inactivity, interruption, intelligence. It is all about claiming property. It is all about an unusual end of a paragraph—

My life is all about this. It is all about the color black and how it is not really a color but a hue. It is all about running around for errands when my feet refuse to cooperate. It is all about having no curfew. It is all about attending a boring class, attending a class that is not my own, attending a boring class once again. It is all about having so much respect to teachers that earn it. It is all about thinking of an answer for a question that has no answer. It is all about bluffing my way through exams and how my friend encourages me to. It is all about fallacies and paradoxes, arguments and politics. It is all about inventing new terminologies. It is all about wishing for a miraculous drizzle in the middle of the burning heat, wishing for a miraculous sunshine in the middle of the freezing cold, wishing for both just for the sake of it. It is all about fixing my bed before I leave.  It is all about mockery. It is all about flicking ears, and annoyingly flick ears. It is all about the three hundred sixty six days of a leap year. It is all about a random sentence about a random sentence randomly inserted in a randomly written bunch of text. It is all about noticing how weird life is. It is all about planning how to effectively murder a person without getting caught. It is all about hiding something in between the lines, hiding something on an entirely different place, hiding in a place not suitable for hiding. It is all about dramatic cuts—

My life is all about this. It is all about having writer’s block. It is all about pointing at a sign and saying “This shouldn’t have been here” or “This is so wrong on so many levels”. It is all about the desire to trespass an abandoned, apparently haunted private property. It is all about being too comfortably close and the phrase’s many implications. It is all about moving from point A to point B, and how it is different from expanding. It is all about the lack of pens when I need them most. It is all about the tendency to overanalyze, underanalyze, coanalyze. It is all about a small gesture of affection from my colleagues. It is all about staying in one place, staying in one piece. It is the knack to bother other people. It is all about playing Scrabble and shamelessly losing. It is all about getting fed up, literally and figuratively. It is all about exacting revenge in the most subtle way possible. It is all about the space between my feet. It is all about blatantly lying. It is all about words not worth mentioning again, words better left unsaid, words not being heard. It is all about the inability to stay awake. It is all about being extremely lazy. It is all about expecting for something new and having nothing at all. It is all about the overuse of em dashes—

My life is all about this. It is all about long posts. It is all about waiting for the clock to strike three, to strike eleven, to strike six. It is all about wasting an opportunity. It is all about getting disappointed. It is all about threatening to ruin one’s life. It is all about striving to be gender-sensitive. It is all about the inability to construct sentences, utilize my vocabulary, tell the truth. It is all about breaking routine, breaking bonds, breaking down. It is all about fiction. It is all about being taken for granted. It is all about being grievously offended and not showing it for fear of the unknown. It is all about the failure to remember things of importance that can still be included in this farce. It is all about not knowing how to end a prose. It is all about deviating from a pattern. It is all about me. It is all about the rest.