I’ve mutilated my hairs. I crop it, cop it, and abuse it. Without guilty, I snip it happily, using mirror as the only witness to my temporary insanity. If I am brought to the Chamber of Justice, I will laugh heartily to the harsh accusation of the ill-treatment to the most sacred property of women: hairs.
If all sins can be forgiven through the pleading of the temporary insanity, the world will be the darkest place to live in the entire universe.
But I always have an irrational desire to influence the style of my hairs. Short, long, curly, straight. Perhaps influence is not the accurate word; I need the power to manipulate how my hairs look like. Or more likely, it is an instrument for me to let the depression out before it has a chance to envelope me. And I don’t give a damn to the criticisms. Maybe I dye it one day, if the plead of temporary insanity is still legally applied to me *sigh* or just to irritate the hell of out you.
No fear, I have no slightest intention of turning my hairs’ colour into blonde, or red, or purple, or delicious blue. Reason? I’m not interested in doing it. Let’s that be an untold, unattainable fantasy for some. Because you know, some people are just like a tip of iceberg. You strip the layers of fats, muscles and bones; you have the privilege to stare directly into their souls. Whether it is ugly of beautiful, don’t forget to use the reason of temporary insanity if the souls repulse you, or attract you. Come to think about it, maybe, just maybe, you are the one who are guilty beyond reasonable doubts of temporary insanity for falling in love or out of love.
A quote that I found somewhere in my bloglists –“ Nobody can think straight when high on passionate love. People are not allowed to sign contracts when they are drunk, and I sometimes wish we could prevent people from proposing marriage when they are high on passionate love”, Prof. Jonathan Haidt (21st century), a leading researcher in the positive psychology department.
My dear readers, before the fire of speculations becomes unruly, I’m not intoxicatingly in love, I’m not depressed (owh I know you want to challenge these self-proclamations), I’m still rational, sensible and sane. Just a thought for your lunch. Happy lunching. Let me float to the magnificent dreamland, where the unrest, weary hearts become stronger, wiser, and happier. Come with me, if you may.