Another nondescript week. The usual drill. Except next week school hands us little clips of paper every hour or so for four consecutive days. Poor trees.
I won't admit it, but I do. I want to admit it but the circumstances say no. I am afraid of the repercussions of few words. Simple, but of great significance and magnitude. The ripples morph into tidal waves which turn all into falling dominoes, entropy refuses to listen, refuses to nullify the rising action.
The story's prologue begins with the dying tradition of drenching birthday children. The unorthodox act of soaking boys to the toes and turning girls into transparencies of minute obscenities. Likened to profane speech from an angry absent-minded scholar. It continues with pretentious people, popular pretentious people and the obnoxiously hilarious. Not to mention the material ones. Absolutely horrific, ghastly indeed.
There are many hormones in this story. Some of them being testosterone, estrogen and serotonin. It's a story with many sub-stories about hormonal pathetic schoolgirls with Hopeless Crushes and Feeble Dreams. There are also the Irrational Idolisations, but that is rather abstractly relevant. There is the Common Speech among the boys; games, balls, dissonant chords and sexual desires. A girlfriend too many times unappreciated. A girlfriend all too possessive. And the boys all too tentative and promiscuous. Minus the actual act of intercourse.
The curtains are drawn apart, everything in place but The Budget. The main character's story is yet to be written. The whole panorama of monotony,mediocrity is saturated with utter boredom; inclines one to inquire as to the motives and thoughts of the writer. Who does he think he (or she for that matter) is?
Applause is given, undeserved, unmerited. But no matter, the show must go on. Maverick in the shadows, the master of all, and master of none.
The show must go on.
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