The Fawn on Hunter's Lawns

I'd begin with "one of life's simplest pleasures" here, but that would simply not suit what I'm about to say.



One of life's most complex pleasures is that of indulging in your curiosity and the mysteries that lie within your own mind.
Sometimes, I wish I had not taken music theory or psychology, but that is like saying I wish I had not aged.
I know so much, so much I wish I had never picked up.


I've figured out exactly why I like certain types of modern music. What chord progressions, what harmonies, what rhythms make it pleasing to the ear. Muse uses minor sixths, Fall out boy uses major sevenths.
I've figured out why certain people are beautiful and why others are not, which is one of the greater sadnesses I've had to understand.
I'll look at your eyes, see their shape and direction, and lose all the wonder I had hoped of having.


My personal and emotional issues, though difficult to explicitly explain, can be summarized as a product of my genetics. And sadly, this is one of those things that can't be solved by simply knowing.

Girls like myself, who started out as young buds with fairy-tale dreams, become the most cynical of all.




This why I listen to Prokofiev, and not Hawthorne Heights. Because I'm searching for a sonority I can't understand.