What It Means To Be A Passerby In Life.
What it means to be a passerby in life.
I suppose, is a vague attempt at figuring out what I want to be in another person's life, I guess. The passerby here leaves an impression on the psyche of every person he interacts with, or at least he tries to in his own way. He doesn't want to be an integral part of a person's life but a vague, misty memory. Whenever the person thinks of the period of time when the passerby existed in the same light cone, he remembers the vague passerby and wonders how weird that particular passerby was with his weird principles and philosophies, the god complex, the quirks, the manipulations. I don't really know if that's what I actually want to be or if it is my own mind's creation to fill the void of not being around people among whom I would want to be the main character. Is it possible to find a main character like that, or am I exaggerating all of it? Either way, I find some kind of joy in being the passerby, maybe possibly more joy than being the main character.
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Wanna be friends with physics/astrophysics major students, anyone up for it š
concept: there are lots of different worlds and all of them have different levels of access to magic. Some are just all over the place and some have no magic at all.
You would think that we would be one of the strictly non-magical worlds, but actually, thatās not the caseāwe donāt have like, a huge excess of magic, but we have, like, dreams, and the placebo effect, which puts us pretty solidly in the āNuminousā world category.
things are going to be difficult. But you
Crash
The sky is so tragically beautiful, the graveyard of stars.
Aren't the clouds beautiful? They change over time but their beauty never fades.
Mathematics is beautiful and amazing and a worthwhile activity even disregarding the applications in science/engineering, and itās sad that so many people hate it. Itās not your enemy, they just didnāt teach it well enough/correctly at school.
life is not for having responsibilities life is for basking in sunshine on chilly january mornings with a book in your lap and nothing but the sound of wind whispering against the bushes around you
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