What if I were just furniture, with all the joy and personality of a dull-grey IKEA plastic-backed chair?
What if I were too tired of wanting to change the scheme of things, and maybe, just maybe, choose to curl up in a corner, grow moss and become just another green-velvet-covered pebble.
Why is it that after all these years, it is only now that I’m surrounded by (or noticing that I’m surrounded by) brick walls that simply will not budge no matter what I do.
I swear I never was the melancholic type. Until recently anyway. It’s one thing to blame those moody reflections on an arts degree, a non-existent arty inclination, or hell, even PMS (which I don’t have), but it’s quite another thing to live with them.
