|User Name:||Eric Blair|
|Last Visited On:||Jun. 10th, 2007, 15:28:37, PDT|
|Registered On:||April 04, 2005|
|Biography:||Who Am I..?|
I'm a poor, struggling, wannabe writer without an ounce of talent in his body.
I'm cool but impetuous, a lovable smart-ass, the hot shot know-it-all; I'm tragic, I'm poetic, I'm a lone soul amidst the sea of people.
I'm the tragic, beautiful, quiet one. I'm the strains of music hanging in the air once the record has stopped, the tune of the music box that's sparks memories, the smell of old times past, the turning of a head from a lovers' voice or touch, the last one to leave the room, the watcher instead of the player. Always out of reach, comfortable to be alone in a crowd, I can be a bit distant, and I may push others away, but I prefer to observe anyway, that's why I'm always in someone's -or everyone's- thoughts.
I'm the poetic loner, the one smiling and standing alone. The footsteps echoing in an empty hallway, the gloved hand resting on the microphone stand, the tendency to stare out the window when it's raining, the martini glass with just a hint of cologne on it, the streets of the city at night. A dreamer at heart, romantic to the core, I'm to driven by emotions for some, and sometimes a bit maudlin, but I wear my heart on my sleeve, that's how it is; I just couldn't exist any other way.
I'm the definition of cool, the voice that stands out. I'm the silhouette in the doorway, the smoke trailing from the ever present cigarette, the steaming, black, hot coffee, the tuned-up music when you're angry, the loud pattern on a shirt, pushed to the back of the clearance rack; The bold laughter at any threat. Care less and cocky, brash and outspoken, I can be insolent at times, sometimes, all the time, and maybe a bit brazen for some, but hey, I've got it under control, and that's how I function best.
I'm the epitome of nonchalance, the car cruising around without destination, map or compass, without aim or reason. I'm the brezze of last spring, the heat of the last summer night, the leaves rustling on fall, the chilly wind of winter. The idle drumming of fingers waiting for something, anything. Ultimately laid-back, perhaps I'm too indiferent, but donít worry, it's all cool, yo.
Who are you..?