hollywood

If the events of Hollywood were the events of everyday life, then on my walk tonight I would have been wrapped up in a turtleneck jumper and not been cold. I would have sat by Blackwattle Bay for a few minutes, pondering my life and the events of the last few weeks with quiet confidence, before the girl of my dreams came and sat next to me and started a conversation. That conversation would have been short, concise, free from misunderstandings and would end in some kind of cautious romantic tension.

If the events of Jane Austen's novels were the events of everyday life, then it would have been the girl of my dreams who had gone for a walk tonight, despairing that I would never return after she called me a pompous arsehole and wishing she were able to undo what she had done. And lo, I would come walking out of the shrubbery and tell her how ardently I admire and love her, et cetera, and then I'd walk with her back to her house and ask her father for her hand.

Novels and Hollywood films are not accurate depictions of life.

My dream girl (with whom I would never have any problems - isn't that what everyone means?) probably doesn't exist. Even if she does, she didn't meet me tonight. And if she had, the conversation would have been quite sparse, allowing plenty of time to ponder the lights from Anzac Bridge reflecting from the water in the bay, shifting slowly with the ebb of each tiny wave. It would most certainly not have ended in cautious romantic tension, because I would tell her that my emotional state is to fragile right now - that I need time to rest, and to refocus my life, perhaps for the very first time, away from the ideals of romance. And nothing would change... the cold night air would remain on my skin; the futility of ill-trained thought would have little chance for escape or correction; somehow, I would still feel lonely.

Forgive me, I'm very tired and hardly thinking straight.