Bud Greenspan narrates on TV, his stoic delivery drowning out the quiet; the modern day fire flickers safely inside the tube, its artificial glow veiling the dark—in a familiar ambience of my room, nestled in bed with the Powerbook, I decompress a long, hard day. Rising and falling, my chest steadily moves; clicking and scrolling, my hand playfully flits the mouse; yearning and starving, my eyes greedily devour their every word. In spite of myself, my mind then plays a movie where I am the main character they write about, the hero in a thrilling misadventure, the lead in a passionate love affair. Or when modesty asserts itself, I am, at the very least, an extra—insignificant; yet enthralled that he, he has shared the silver screen, even if for briefly, with them, partaken in the revelry of their circle, however much peripherally relegated he has been: glad, happy, joyful, nonetheless, I'd be; and all the more grateful.
Oh, Life of Longing.
Also known as BlogCrushes.
Continues on here.
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