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It's as if by some mistake I'm trickling to the same form of human, but differently.
It's like I've said before: if only I could have her.
It's like I've said before: if only I could have her.
You need to understand that I am this person.
I am willing to torture you, coax you into the deepest pain of your life
So you can admit that I am fucking crazy
And so are you
For believing you were better.
I am willing to torture you, coax you into the deepest pain of your life
So you can admit that I am fucking crazy
And so are you
For believing you were better.
I can do so many things.
I can make you laugh and make you angry.
And happy about the sandwich I put in front of you,
perhaps about the fact that I took the time to make it.
Perhaps not.
I can make you cry
Over nothing. And make it seem valuable and sincere because
I put it there.
And I made you feel it,
So at the very least, I should understand it
Even when I don't.
I can struggle with you, help you drive yourself into the ground
Make you micromanage your emotions and
shelve them in categories and
subcategories and
hide the ugly ones in large books, on large shelves, in large libraries.
I can even make you fucking sick.
I can indulge the thought of making you miss me, and
simultaneously torture you.
I can do that. I can do a lot.
I have many powers
But I cannot, will not, and thank god for that, make you fall madly in love
with yourself.
Because so long as you're loathing,
so am I.
And so long as you're disgusting,
I agree.
And so long as you believe yourself
the shit and scum of the fucking earth,
I will keep you there.
Because that's exactly what you deserve
if you think it is.
Stranger: So what brings you here?
Mullen: I don't know, I want to steal the wind from someone, and usually by someone I mean myself, so I can choke and claim life again by writing. -pause- Which sounds dramatic, but I'm losing my outlet.
Stranger: Huh... sounds like auto erotic asphyxiation
Mullen: More like suicide.
Stranger: Well don't do that.
Mullen: I don't plan to.
It occurs to me that it's impossible to live the way I did. I cannot go backward anymore. I used to be so good at going backward, getting back to old ways, but I can't. That tidal wave of intensity clipped me off from the island of history and is forcing me to move on, toward the city, find new. I want differently sometimes. I stand at the fault, wondering if I should move left or right, constantly. Will I move to the side that dips or rises? How much more or less destructive is the left side in comparison to the right, but it doesn't matter anyway.
I'm cursing my own brain half the time. Since that walk downhill, I've been consciously swell and subconsciously menacing. Every low moment is an opportunity to kill myself, but the high ones are opportunities to kill myself without anyone figuring out why. I'm trying to comprehend the difference between being happy and being sad. I hardly understand it. I can't tell if I've pushed myself up or if I'm on a casual, perfect downward spiral and it happens that once in a while there's an updraft. Am I climbing a mountain or falling off a cliff, and if I'm climbing a mountain, do I off myself at the peak to never feel the fall or slouch downhill and walk into the underbelly of sickness? I'm simultaneously anxious with the desire to off myself and the desire not to. Anxious about the future, anxious about how long I'll last thinking this way. Anxious about living life one day at a time. (I both can and cannot do this...)
And I can't even tell if I want easy success with structure or the knowledge of losing myself in a craft and being proud of it. I think the second one. I can see that now that I've written it down.
Still, something is missing.
Mullen: I don't plan to.
It occurs to me that it's impossible to live the way I did. I cannot go backward anymore. I used to be so good at going backward, getting back to old ways, but I can't. That tidal wave of intensity clipped me off from the island of history and is forcing me to move on, toward the city, find new. I want differently sometimes. I stand at the fault, wondering if I should move left or right, constantly. Will I move to the side that dips or rises? How much more or less destructive is the left side in comparison to the right, but it doesn't matter anyway.
I'm cursing my own brain half the time. Since that walk downhill, I've been consciously swell and subconsciously menacing. Every low moment is an opportunity to kill myself, but the high ones are opportunities to kill myself without anyone figuring out why. I'm trying to comprehend the difference between being happy and being sad. I hardly understand it. I can't tell if I've pushed myself up or if I'm on a casual, perfect downward spiral and it happens that once in a while there's an updraft. Am I climbing a mountain or falling off a cliff, and if I'm climbing a mountain, do I off myself at the peak to never feel the fall or slouch downhill and walk into the underbelly of sickness? I'm simultaneously anxious with the desire to off myself and the desire not to. Anxious about the future, anxious about how long I'll last thinking this way. Anxious about living life one day at a time. (I both can and cannot do this...)
And I can't even tell if I want easy success with structure or the knowledge of losing myself in a craft and being proud of it. I think the second one. I can see that now that I've written it down.
Still, something is missing.
Get through exams, little me. Get through exams and spend the entire summer bending the world to your will. It's just a week.
I am on a perpetual downfall with a smile on my face. I'm drugged into perfection by the wave of sound and scope of voice and whisper. The human in me cries, but the machine carries the dying body, forcing it upright, corseting it into correctness. I am bound by my own fight for glory and grace and I will win this battle, or cinch the corset tight enough to collapse my lungs.
I dread my own passover under the solemn belief that the weakening of me will remind the normal fake me that I'm still existing. My consequence is of nothing, so for the first time here:
You're a child. I love you, but you're a child.
Who am I? Do I seem to contain copious amount of vomiting progress? Will I create the length of you? Do I mediate the passing from here to then and forward and back. Before the angle of our perception is ruined, I want you to understand that I promise I do not want you to change, I need you to. I need you to grow and become powerful and drastic. I cannot control your energy. You must compromise your voice and substitute it for your mind. When the me now is old in comparison to the me then, I witness the ways that I had come so far ahead of you. You must understand that you must catch up to have me and I have no faith in your ability to rise to where I am and grab my hand. One day, as I promised, I will introduce you to the me that believed that you were something more than nothing and now I realize that actually you're a more and simultaneously less disappointing version of her. You are the fast forward and consequent rewind of that one other girl who managed to have me for this long; still, even now.
It's uncomfortable to notice my anxiety alone. How blind are you? I was around you most of ll, and so involved in your boring FUCKING life, you took no care to notice, took time to notice, ached in yourself, wallowed in the shit up to the tip of your lungs, right up to the holes of your eyes and engulfed yourself in false matrimony. It isn't passon that you feel, but instead the ability to watch someone indulge so formally in yourself that rises the vertigo of noise and medium to you. I voice the difference in bold emotion. It takes one length of breath to match myself to you.
Who am I, dearest. Work on it.
Differently though, I've never felt music the way I do now since Florence damaged my senses so long ago.
Over - fucking - whelmed.
It exists because whelmed is simply existing, which isn't anything to talk about.
You're a child. I love you, but you're a child.
Who am I? Do I seem to contain copious amount of vomiting progress? Will I create the length of you? Do I mediate the passing from here to then and forward and back. Before the angle of our perception is ruined, I want you to understand that I promise I do not want you to change, I need you to. I need you to grow and become powerful and drastic. I cannot control your energy. You must compromise your voice and substitute it for your mind. When the me now is old in comparison to the me then, I witness the ways that I had come so far ahead of you. You must understand that you must catch up to have me and I have no faith in your ability to rise to where I am and grab my hand. One day, as I promised, I will introduce you to the me that believed that you were something more than nothing and now I realize that actually you're a more and simultaneously less disappointing version of her. You are the fast forward and consequent rewind of that one other girl who managed to have me for this long; still, even now.
It's uncomfortable to notice my anxiety alone. How blind are you? I was around you most of ll, and so involved in your boring FUCKING life, you took no care to notice, took time to notice, ached in yourself, wallowed in the shit up to the tip of your lungs, right up to the holes of your eyes and engulfed yourself in false matrimony. It isn't passon that you feel, but instead the ability to watch someone indulge so formally in yourself that rises the vertigo of noise and medium to you. I voice the difference in bold emotion. It takes one length of breath to match myself to you.
Who am I, dearest. Work on it.
Differently though, I've never felt music the way I do now since Florence damaged my senses so long ago.
Over - fucking - whelmed.
It exists because whelmed is simply existing, which isn't anything to talk about.
It's it fun the way that the breath of a person can capture you?
Take the cigarette out of your mouth and lose my attention.
I'm just saying you could do better.
I don't mean anything.
"I'm dead inside" "You make that pretty obvious"
Remember absorption of self into self? That feeling of liking and wanting to kill it and kill them to save the self dear god what am I turning into. There was a time when I'd rather kill myself than the other but maybe I want an easy out. Help me disappear so I don't have to kill or die to do it. I used to be so good at this.
But then stay, too. Right?
I'm going to make what is probably my most obvious and clear statement on here. Charlotte, darling, is she too young for you?
Usually.
I'm addicted to passion. I'm trying to remain honest. I'm trying to work out of the lines and remain honest and my darling husband I could just say this directly to you instead of writing it here, but it's late and you're sleeping. I hope.
And myself?
MIA. As per usual.
I'm just saying you could do better...
Who are we lately.
I meant to write this ages ago because I've been thinking it for weeks, but I think what was once a choice to stay alone turned into a fear of getting together somewhere along the lines. I'm afraid to give myself up. I'm afraid to take what I can't keep. I'm afraid to take and break something fragile. I'm afraid to damage what isn't mine. Weirdly, I have no fears of being hurt. Hurt is art, it can be beautiful. I've learned how to channel that but honestly, all the 'what ifs' counteract each other in my mind and choke my will. Honestly I just want to destroy people. What if it shows?
I'm just saying you could do better.
I don't mean anything.
"I'm dead inside" "You make that pretty obvious"
Remember absorption of self into self? That feeling of liking and wanting to kill it and kill them to save the self dear god what am I turning into. There was a time when I'd rather kill myself than the other but maybe I want an easy out. Help me disappear so I don't have to kill or die to do it. I used to be so good at this.
But then stay, too. Right?
I'm going to make what is probably my most obvious and clear statement on here. Charlotte, darling, is she too young for you?
Usually.
I'm addicted to passion. I'm trying to remain honest. I'm trying to work out of the lines and remain honest and my darling husband I could just say this directly to you instead of writing it here, but it's late and you're sleeping. I hope.
And myself?
MIA. As per usual.
I'm just saying you could do better...
Who are we lately.
I meant to write this ages ago because I've been thinking it for weeks, but I think what was once a choice to stay alone turned into a fear of getting together somewhere along the lines. I'm afraid to give myself up. I'm afraid to take what I can't keep. I'm afraid to take and break something fragile. I'm afraid to damage what isn't mine. Weirdly, I have no fears of being hurt. Hurt is art, it can be beautiful. I've learned how to channel that but honestly, all the 'what ifs' counteract each other in my mind and choke my will. Honestly I just want to destroy people. What if it shows?
Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может
В душе моей угасла не совсем;
Но пусть она вас больше не тревожит;
Я не хочу печалить вас ничем.
Я вас любил безмолвно, безнадежно,
То робостью, то ревностью томим;
Я вас любил так искренно, так нежно,
Как дай вам бог любимой быть другим.
I loved you once: perhaps that love has yet
В душе моей угасла не совсем;
Но пусть она вас больше не тревожит;
Я не хочу печалить вас ничем.
Я вас любил безмолвно, безнадежно,
То робостью, то ревностью томим;
Я вас любил так искренно, так нежно,
Как дай вам бог любимой быть другим.
I loved you once: perhaps that love has yet
To die down thoroughly within my soul;
But let it not dismay you any longer;
I have no wish to cause you any sorrow.
I loved you wordlessly, without a hope,
By shyness tortured, or by jealousy.
I loved you with such tenderness and candor
And pray God grants you to be loved that way again.Beauty often is uneasy to dissociate from character. From the beginning of it and then the end of it and sometimes deadly rouging of colour after lips have been toughed by something greater. I magically and albeit deceivingly wash whatever words I remember from memory in search of strength in created language.
Tomorrow, I'll be better. Even I judge my language in saying that. I just offered myself a look of disappointment. Have I really stooped to such self-deception? Do I really think that I'll believe myself, this time? Will I be walking headstrong and valiant tomorrow? Give me something to live for and then maybe. I think, despite my aching for anchor, I need a change. I need a push forward, something to propel me into the life I'd planned. I was moving so quickly for a while there that I thought perhaps it could be a lasting train of movement. At least, if nothing better, I could find myself a reasonable goal to reach for. I am a gaping mess of nothing ventured, nothing gained. How sad. I've become so tempered and timely and contained. There was once so much more of me. What happened.
How powerfully submissive of me. I used to have such light. Such wanting of things. The lonely ranger goes no where I suppose.The waiting for the growing and the falling before the ending. I'm here and there and everywhere and into Suess I turn and so on. I have to remember myself. How can I though when my face is so forgettable. I think mostly I just want something to admire. My disappointment in myself an all things is becoming so weighty and defining in me that now I hardly know where to stop. I don't even know where to start, to be frank, but at the very least I can deal with that. In its remarkable benevolence at least I rely on the stopping before the going or the switching of directions to mark my place. Wherever I am.
Like god and women, no less, I've lost whatever I was carrying. Everything and everyone scattered and on their own and indifferent to me myself and I.
Fuck this feeling of insightful secondary. Kill them to make the self the main character. How long will you last being the secondary role in your own story, hm? Aren't you just waiting for the dystopian upheaval of ways? Fuck me, if you will. So I can feel the martyr in this game of folly and once-friends. I'm so e m p t y....
Tomorrow, I'll be better. Even I judge my language in saying that. I just offered myself a look of disappointment. Have I really stooped to such self-deception? Do I really think that I'll believe myself, this time? Will I be walking headstrong and valiant tomorrow? Give me something to live for and then maybe. I think, despite my aching for anchor, I need a change. I need a push forward, something to propel me into the life I'd planned. I was moving so quickly for a while there that I thought perhaps it could be a lasting train of movement. At least, if nothing better, I could find myself a reasonable goal to reach for. I am a gaping mess of nothing ventured, nothing gained. How sad. I've become so tempered and timely and contained. There was once so much more of me. What happened.
How powerfully submissive of me. I used to have such light. Such wanting of things. The lonely ranger goes no where I suppose.The waiting for the growing and the falling before the ending. I'm here and there and everywhere and into Suess I turn and so on. I have to remember myself. How can I though when my face is so forgettable. I think mostly I just want something to admire. My disappointment in myself an all things is becoming so weighty and defining in me that now I hardly know where to stop. I don't even know where to start, to be frank, but at the very least I can deal with that. In its remarkable benevolence at least I rely on the stopping before the going or the switching of directions to mark my place. Wherever I am.
Like god and women, no less, I've lost whatever I was carrying. Everything and everyone scattered and on their own and indifferent to me myself and I.
Fuck this feeling of insightful secondary. Kill them to make the self the main character. How long will you last being the secondary role in your own story, hm? Aren't you just waiting for the dystopian upheaval of ways? Fuck me, if you will. So I can feel the martyr in this game of folly and once-friends. I'm so e m p t y....
You know that awkward and remote feeling of plunging backward into a body of water only to find it's deeper than you remember? The psychological feeling, I mean.
I cannot be around people right now...
I cannot be around people right now...
I commit myself to nothing so often that I sometimes forget what I've been avoiding. Why not? Why not the taste of cigarettes and defeat.
I sometimes want to be as revealing and loose-tongued as I know others can be and I want to wear my skin as an open overcoat which I hand to the doorman as I enter the party and at once display my innards like war elephants display their strength. I'm the ethereal undoing of one idea in favour of another. The demonic demonstration of demoralization. I'm someone. Sometimes.
After my erratic defense, I give up. I'm not that person. I'm awkward in reveal and frightened in sunlight like death looks on top of the Virgin. Forgive me when I tell you I have nothing to say. There's really nothing I can say. Don't you know what unable means?
Some things I miss. Others? Well, not so much.
I sometimes want to be as revealing and loose-tongued as I know others can be and I want to wear my skin as an open overcoat which I hand to the doorman as I enter the party and at once display my innards like war elephants display their strength. I'm the ethereal undoing of one idea in favour of another. The demonic demonstration of demoralization. I'm someone. Sometimes.
After my erratic defense, I give up. I'm not that person. I'm awkward in reveal and frightened in sunlight like death looks on top of the Virgin. Forgive me when I tell you I have nothing to say. There's really nothing I can say. Don't you know what unable means?
Some things I miss. Others? Well, not so much.
Despite it all, simple things catch me.
"I've had enough of all the things that make me nervous and sad."
I have wasted a copious amount of time, a pathetic amount of time feeling sorry and satisfying the ugly within myself by driving myself mad. I have been sitting in the depths of my own womb, to cast a shadow upon no one and for what? These people, they will conquer you if they can and so when you're in a state of potentially permanent control, you do not let go.
Why should I let go?
Excuse me while I revive myself, I've been under the belly of a monster for a couple of months when I was on a bright path toward the stars. I've already eaten through the stomach and organs and now, with its head removed, I become the monster, turn the tables in ways that make me queen atop this once body, now throne of a thing. In my undeniable wrath, I crane my neck to view the mess I've created. There isn't much, but there's some blood on the floor in the process of disappearing. I had to see the wreckage for myself though, the proof that hardly anything ever was, and neither will it be.
I DO NOT HAVE ANXIETY. Anymore. I'm quick, right? I go through these phases. I would always tell people 'I have developed something of a terrible anxiety over ONE. SINGULAR. SUMMER.'
No. What flattery goes toward this one singular summer. Whatever it was that was plaguing my spirit was not anxiety, no, but instead a rooted loathing for the thing that made me angry in the first place. I have been toiling 'round in my passive agressiveness, waiting for the moment of attack and this is it. This is the moment where my battle cry does justice -- silence. Say nothing. Be no one. And then emerge the genius, raging and ravenous in beauty and elegance and just like that, conquest.
"I've had enough of all the things that make me nervous and sad."
I have wasted a copious amount of time, a pathetic amount of time feeling sorry and satisfying the ugly within myself by driving myself mad. I have been sitting in the depths of my own womb, to cast a shadow upon no one and for what? These people, they will conquer you if they can and so when you're in a state of potentially permanent control, you do not let go.
Why should I let go?
Excuse me while I revive myself, I've been under the belly of a monster for a couple of months when I was on a bright path toward the stars. I've already eaten through the stomach and organs and now, with its head removed, I become the monster, turn the tables in ways that make me queen atop this once body, now throne of a thing. In my undeniable wrath, I crane my neck to view the mess I've created. There isn't much, but there's some blood on the floor in the process of disappearing. I had to see the wreckage for myself though, the proof that hardly anything ever was, and neither will it be.
I DO NOT HAVE ANXIETY. Anymore. I'm quick, right? I go through these phases. I would always tell people 'I have developed something of a terrible anxiety over ONE. SINGULAR. SUMMER.'
No. What flattery goes toward this one singular summer. Whatever it was that was plaguing my spirit was not anxiety, no, but instead a rooted loathing for the thing that made me angry in the first place. I have been toiling 'round in my passive agressiveness, waiting for the moment of attack and this is it. This is the moment where my battle cry does justice -- silence. Say nothing. Be no one. And then emerge the genius, raging and ravenous in beauty and elegance and just like that, conquest.
I have never more felt out of place in a place I know. I feel like something is missing.
Call me a child, but I'd say that maybe, perhaps this is too much change for me. I want a bit of the consistancy of before. Something from previous to hold on too, but things keep slipping. Keep fucking slipping life, so will I.
Anyway. I think I just want the steadfast wonderful of the life I had before. I feel so LONELY, despite all the noise. And chaotic and disorganized despite all the sequence and order. I want so much to remember what happened. Why so much has fallen away. I just want a bit of comfort, I guess. I want to know that there is something true against my shoulder, beside me, with a soft reminder of yesterday to wake me from solitary.
Change is good. It truly is. I suppose what I need is change in a moderate fashion.
That, and I'm living on the wrong side of the city. I feel like my world is in this state of exhausted reverse I can't pull myself from. Maybe when Tea moves down I'll be able to get it all back together. I feel so sad when I should be excited. I think once my birthday comes around I'll feel like this distant invisible friends are real again. It's no one's fault, but still I feel the world disappearing. Going away from me.
Fortunately, I enjoy my classes. I feel a bit rushed sometimes, but I generally enjoy it. Once I've got a routine going, I'll feel a lot better, I think.
Ugh, the world is soooo far away.
Call me a child, but I'd say that maybe, perhaps this is too much change for me. I want a bit of the consistancy of before. Something from previous to hold on too, but things keep slipping. Keep fucking slipping life, so will I.
Anyway. I think I just want the steadfast wonderful of the life I had before. I feel so LONELY, despite all the noise. And chaotic and disorganized despite all the sequence and order. I want so much to remember what happened. Why so much has fallen away. I just want a bit of comfort, I guess. I want to know that there is something true against my shoulder, beside me, with a soft reminder of yesterday to wake me from solitary.
Change is good. It truly is. I suppose what I need is change in a moderate fashion.
That, and I'm living on the wrong side of the city. I feel like my world is in this state of exhausted reverse I can't pull myself from. Maybe when Tea moves down I'll be able to get it all back together. I feel so sad when I should be excited. I think once my birthday comes around I'll feel like this distant invisible friends are real again. It's no one's fault, but still I feel the world disappearing. Going away from me.
Fortunately, I enjoy my classes. I feel a bit rushed sometimes, but I generally enjoy it. Once I've got a routine going, I'll feel a lot better, I think.
Ugh, the world is soooo far away.
I hate when people laugh too much. Laugh away their utter stupidity, joke about their ridiculous lack of thought before speaking. I hate it in others, I hate it in myself.
Say them, say all these words and press your voice to make the greater, lesser, and the lesser, trivial.
Self reflect to make the self better.
You know what, there's so much crazy out there. I hate looking at you especially.
You know what I think about you?
I think you look like someone's girlfriend.
Someone's friend.
Someone's something.
But nothing like 'someone'.
And that there is the fucking problem.
"I hate"
Sometimes it's that simple.
Say them, say all these words and press your voice to make the greater, lesser, and the lesser, trivial.
Self reflect to make the self better.
You know what, there's so much crazy out there. I hate looking at you especially.
You know what I think about you?
I think you look like someone's girlfriend.
Someone's friend.
Someone's something.
But nothing like 'someone'.
And that there is the fucking problem.
"I hate"
Sometimes it's that simple.
When music drives my logic back into me, consumes me with moderation, process, thought and calculation. When I am forced to question myself, proven wrong by clever progressions and pauses; it is then that I realize the weight of sound on me. I patiently wait for each moment when, again, I can be humbled by music. Give me the control.
Forced, undeniably, to read the words on the page. Bury my inflamed nostrils into the sheets of the book and inhale so deeply that I cause my nostrils to bleed in ecstasy. "This could be sweet" the asking and receiving.
I'm sometimes so far in my extremities that I can hardly stretch to fill the void and at others so compacted at the moderate centre of the scale that I fear I'm choking.
PREPARE YOURSELF
She'll nearly never look you in the eye, but when she does. Oh, when she does.
Forced, undeniably, to read the words on the page. Bury my inflamed nostrils into the sheets of the book and inhale so deeply that I cause my nostrils to bleed in ecstasy. "This could be sweet" the asking and receiving.
I'm sometimes so far in my extremities that I can hardly stretch to fill the void and at others so compacted at the moderate centre of the scale that I fear I'm choking.
PREPARE YOURSELF
She'll nearly never look you in the eye, but when she does. Oh, when she does.
It is unfortunate to discover that you're even less than, in your modesty, you thought you were. Less than the small figment you imagined yourself to already be, smaller than the last bit of the world you'd grasped for yourself.
It is unfortunate because it is true and it is lovely in that it means even less than you do. Tragedy has its daylight.
It is unfortunate because it is true and it is lovely in that it means even less than you do. Tragedy has its daylight.
Remember?
Remember when we used to talk about roles about the roles that humans, that people used to play. The ones they'd use to fasten themselves to the wagon that pulled them into what they dreamed to be. Strip themselves away to get to their trueness, their nothing. Remember? When we'd talk of the retrospect and the words and the way they'd divulge themselves to prove their worth and all the while becoming something a little less than what they were before, a little more of the masking of the cut out paper, the silicone, the crafts foam.
And you, so brilliant, doing the best of all of them, knowing their lines and their musings choose to play the best way, run lines with the best of them and make your life in the deepest perversion of this role. To sing this falsehood to a knowing audience and have this gift of men lay perfected in front of them, have them know your lie and, in your talent, convince them it is truth. How, by any fault do you do what you do to a sane subject. You, in your vague perfection, agonize over the minute the way that knowers do in order to find the details of the others, draw the wrongness out of them which is excepted in you and you hasten them, force them to reconcile the ghost within them, in furs if it be so, and naked, convince them, while jestering in your providence, that your wrongs cannot be, that their own must verily take precedence over what could have been the fault of others.
We've watched films and seen plays and this, if right, is what a play does do, is what an actor does commit its audience to conceive if they are anything more than nothing, if they are worthy of such a role.
I recall my own roles. I've played each so convincingly that I've even convinced myself I exist in these places on these stages, reversing myself, allowing the actors around me to convince me of myself. Constantly, while doing the same to my audience, I strike myself each blow those next to me on stage choose to commit in order that they might catch me at my weakest and break my role, but I am not playing, not so surfacely that they might break my focus, cause me to lose attention. I am so lost in this.
Remember when we spoke of walls? We spoke of how the membranes of our mind, of mine, have these walls of captivity. I have them, I host myself inside them so often that I forget to break them. I grow so comfortable in my box that I forget the way that myself is infinitely smaller than my head, that I am infinitely smaller. That these boxes grow, while I grow, or at least change. Each wall white and each beyond it whiter than the previous, growing more and more imminent and necessary than the first. I stay behind one wall in this round box so long that I scribble my dirt, my filth all over it, tease my walls into cluttered ruin until I find the ugly door beneath my feet or in front of me and step into the larger frame around it. In my coastal imbalance, I figure the comfort of the next room, blinded by its whiteness and yet I cannot notice that the only difference in my walls is my previous mess. I step into this larger frame to rediscover and create anew. I find such purity and by using it I create the ugly of myself and manage to satisfy my hole of a room until I fill and then the door and progression. It and me change aggravatingly, the ground beneath me I am so frightful of breaking keeps me level and perfect and I have hardly noticed how much it's holding me back until the white turns to black and I am jaded.
I have been stuck in this room for years. In that room, the one I've just left. At one point I was stepping so frequently into the new rooms I hardly noticed the majestic quality of the white and then now, turning off my dirt, I realize the frankness of this lacking of taint, despite dragging some of my filth in through the door. I pass so faded into the next room that I am blinded by my own resonance under this whiteness, disturbed by this humble being I am at the start of my invasion. It is brilliant that it has taken so long for me to note the floating box within the centre, smaller than the rest. And it is silly the way that the ladder is there, steps to climb onto the box and force the lid open so that I might see the sun which penetrates the skin of thought and yet I do not. I use the doors, I use what I know I can take until finally I am sick of my own curiosity and I open the lid and climb up into the abyss of empty and watch the fucking world turn from blackened to white in front of my eyes as though the rooms of below had encapsulated me. I had been walking inward instead of outward and in my bullied stubbornness I went upside down and uncovered my error. I do not need this history, I do not need to find it, to grasp it, to only use the doors I know in order to come to these places. I do not need the undistinguished plain and hidden doors within the walls to make my way out into the new white. It has been cleansing itself and I have stumbled onto these same rooms without noticing and so the same result. Jaded.
I do not need the seemingly obese and ever-widening molding of my central nerve to exist in this. I am so far away, looking out instead of up into the farther reaches of space and these walls, these trappings, nuances given time to pretty up and turn from black to white inward and outward again have vicious turnings of the mind of these actors of these people; and they are roles, yours and mine, facing themselves.
I have played these roles so often and so differently that I hardly recognize them and they hardly recognize me and now I see it, now that they have aligned themselves one after the other in their constipated boredom, as if only to see if I'd notice their ugliness burping back to the surface. These roles, steadfast in themselves promote their own injustices and feature the same characters played by different people and I will stab the actor who tries to ruin me in my graceful and perfect performance and I will drive into the basin of endless recall the one who succeeds and so still, perhaps it is why I suffer in my talks of suicide: because I am trapping me. I am choking myself to death with these similar acts, playing the same roles in the same play run differently each time by a new director and I have become so rudely awakened that I will truly murder my way rushedly through the roles that I have missed so I might catch up with myself. Let me get there with the woman I am, ahead of me, cradled by clouds, looking down and playing puppet master.
Sway. Swaying awkwardly into myself finally reunited with the lustful purity of massive selfishness, of the vanity of self-knowing, of the righteousness of loathing the other while loving the other for this dramatic saga of distress.
You know me so well, my love. You know me better than anyone and so of course I write this to you, my ghost, my memory of everything. In what I've told you, I can recall what I am. In our stories, in our conversations, in our roles. Oh your giving genius coaxes me into my truthful witchery, the bitch, the endless woman. Your finicky vividness matches wits with mine and drags me into brighter lights, darker into brighter in memory of the you and I who once existed. The us that created this, the goodness.
I know it all, you know, I know it the way that you know I should, hidden within the walls of myself and dusted with your graces so I don't reach too deeply into what was before. I don't need it. I don't need these roles, these tales and why then do I repeat them? I know my reaction. To love, to lust, to dream and to create these plays so that I might act as a lead and play my own role several times just to perfect it. Play these roles for weeks at a time, months or years in passing to draw myself into the perfect version of what? Like men seeking to perfect what they are when better cannot be what they already know, oh love, I know it.
And now I speak differently into a better promotion, into something I've never been. I linger as an idea of a self, a changing consistency, an aggressive force untainted by these human folk, these average people. I manifest my narcissism and dig my nails into the earth and finally, exhaustively open my lungs onto the new world, the large expanse, cry desperately for what I know to be mine and mine alone and virtuously dive into the crater I've created to sleep next to the all knowing patience, bend my back into my frightful sky and say, scream, pour.
Dividends of my right and my way and here we are.
Endlessly,
Grey
Remember when we used to talk about roles about the roles that humans, that people used to play. The ones they'd use to fasten themselves to the wagon that pulled them into what they dreamed to be. Strip themselves away to get to their trueness, their nothing. Remember? When we'd talk of the retrospect and the words and the way they'd divulge themselves to prove their worth and all the while becoming something a little less than what they were before, a little more of the masking of the cut out paper, the silicone, the crafts foam.
And you, so brilliant, doing the best of all of them, knowing their lines and their musings choose to play the best way, run lines with the best of them and make your life in the deepest perversion of this role. To sing this falsehood to a knowing audience and have this gift of men lay perfected in front of them, have them know your lie and, in your talent, convince them it is truth. How, by any fault do you do what you do to a sane subject. You, in your vague perfection, agonize over the minute the way that knowers do in order to find the details of the others, draw the wrongness out of them which is excepted in you and you hasten them, force them to reconcile the ghost within them, in furs if it be so, and naked, convince them, while jestering in your providence, that your wrongs cannot be, that their own must verily take precedence over what could have been the fault of others.
We've watched films and seen plays and this, if right, is what a play does do, is what an actor does commit its audience to conceive if they are anything more than nothing, if they are worthy of such a role.
I recall my own roles. I've played each so convincingly that I've even convinced myself I exist in these places on these stages, reversing myself, allowing the actors around me to convince me of myself. Constantly, while doing the same to my audience, I strike myself each blow those next to me on stage choose to commit in order that they might catch me at my weakest and break my role, but I am not playing, not so surfacely that they might break my focus, cause me to lose attention. I am so lost in this.
Remember when we spoke of walls? We spoke of how the membranes of our mind, of mine, have these walls of captivity. I have them, I host myself inside them so often that I forget to break them. I grow so comfortable in my box that I forget the way that myself is infinitely smaller than my head, that I am infinitely smaller. That these boxes grow, while I grow, or at least change. Each wall white and each beyond it whiter than the previous, growing more and more imminent and necessary than the first. I stay behind one wall in this round box so long that I scribble my dirt, my filth all over it, tease my walls into cluttered ruin until I find the ugly door beneath my feet or in front of me and step into the larger frame around it. In my coastal imbalance, I figure the comfort of the next room, blinded by its whiteness and yet I cannot notice that the only difference in my walls is my previous mess. I step into this larger frame to rediscover and create anew. I find such purity and by using it I create the ugly of myself and manage to satisfy my hole of a room until I fill and then the door and progression. It and me change aggravatingly, the ground beneath me I am so frightful of breaking keeps me level and perfect and I have hardly noticed how much it's holding me back until the white turns to black and I am jaded.
I have been stuck in this room for years. In that room, the one I've just left. At one point I was stepping so frequently into the new rooms I hardly noticed the majestic quality of the white and then now, turning off my dirt, I realize the frankness of this lacking of taint, despite dragging some of my filth in through the door. I pass so faded into the next room that I am blinded by my own resonance under this whiteness, disturbed by this humble being I am at the start of my invasion. It is brilliant that it has taken so long for me to note the floating box within the centre, smaller than the rest. And it is silly the way that the ladder is there, steps to climb onto the box and force the lid open so that I might see the sun which penetrates the skin of thought and yet I do not. I use the doors, I use what I know I can take until finally I am sick of my own curiosity and I open the lid and climb up into the abyss of empty and watch the fucking world turn from blackened to white in front of my eyes as though the rooms of below had encapsulated me. I had been walking inward instead of outward and in my bullied stubbornness I went upside down and uncovered my error. I do not need this history, I do not need to find it, to grasp it, to only use the doors I know in order to come to these places. I do not need the undistinguished plain and hidden doors within the walls to make my way out into the new white. It has been cleansing itself and I have stumbled onto these same rooms without noticing and so the same result. Jaded.
I do not need the seemingly obese and ever-widening molding of my central nerve to exist in this. I am so far away, looking out instead of up into the farther reaches of space and these walls, these trappings, nuances given time to pretty up and turn from black to white inward and outward again have vicious turnings of the mind of these actors of these people; and they are roles, yours and mine, facing themselves.
I have played these roles so often and so differently that I hardly recognize them and they hardly recognize me and now I see it, now that they have aligned themselves one after the other in their constipated boredom, as if only to see if I'd notice their ugliness burping back to the surface. These roles, steadfast in themselves promote their own injustices and feature the same characters played by different people and I will stab the actor who tries to ruin me in my graceful and perfect performance and I will drive into the basin of endless recall the one who succeeds and so still, perhaps it is why I suffer in my talks of suicide: because I am trapping me. I am choking myself to death with these similar acts, playing the same roles in the same play run differently each time by a new director and I have become so rudely awakened that I will truly murder my way rushedly through the roles that I have missed so I might catch up with myself. Let me get there with the woman I am, ahead of me, cradled by clouds, looking down and playing puppet master.
Sway. Swaying awkwardly into myself finally reunited with the lustful purity of massive selfishness, of the vanity of self-knowing, of the righteousness of loathing the other while loving the other for this dramatic saga of distress.
You know me so well, my love. You know me better than anyone and so of course I write this to you, my ghost, my memory of everything. In what I've told you, I can recall what I am. In our stories, in our conversations, in our roles. Oh your giving genius coaxes me into my truthful witchery, the bitch, the endless woman. Your finicky vividness matches wits with mine and drags me into brighter lights, darker into brighter in memory of the you and I who once existed. The us that created this, the goodness.
I know it all, you know, I know it the way that you know I should, hidden within the walls of myself and dusted with your graces so I don't reach too deeply into what was before. I don't need it. I don't need these roles, these tales and why then do I repeat them? I know my reaction. To love, to lust, to dream and to create these plays so that I might act as a lead and play my own role several times just to perfect it. Play these roles for weeks at a time, months or years in passing to draw myself into the perfect version of what? Like men seeking to perfect what they are when better cannot be what they already know, oh love, I know it.
And now I speak differently into a better promotion, into something I've never been. I linger as an idea of a self, a changing consistency, an aggressive force untainted by these human folk, these average people. I manifest my narcissism and dig my nails into the earth and finally, exhaustively open my lungs onto the new world, the large expanse, cry desperately for what I know to be mine and mine alone and virtuously dive into the crater I've created to sleep next to the all knowing patience, bend my back into my frightful sky and say, scream, pour.
Dividends of my right and my way and here we are.
Endlessly,
Grey
I can.
And so I do.
And it, sometimes, is that simple.
Some music just puts me in places. I'm so so happy with Uverworld, no matter what.
And so I do.
And it, sometimes, is that simple.
Some music just puts me in places. I'm so so happy with Uverworld, no matter what.
Snap back to create the appropriate degree between foot and calf, create a perpendicular junction to stimulate the eye and then loosen to fall heavy onto the ground. Lift again, rotate, fall, fall, fall. It is in this poisonous period of repetition that I find rage. The weight of stigma is so simple.
Soften, my love.
Oh the satisfactory raping of my soul when it rains, oh, when it rains. I'm dragged into the pit of the storm, tossed into my inebriation. I want so much to stand within myself and I'm standing there instead, thought and thinking. I want to take from her all of the things I know to be true and I can't even grasp her. I want so much. I want it all.
Give me at least a hair, give me at least the clipping of a nail. Something physical to grasp so that I know this powerful weight is something that I'll eventually witness. I am doused with your wonder, with your grace. I'm so weighed by awe in this rain, dearest, I'm uncovered. I can't image where the breath could take me, how far this breeze, these spittings of water will take me up into the nuances of the universe. I have to imagine that eventually I'll be this good, this strong, this much and yet also never will I be such a massive, overwhelming being.
And I realize now that it's all I've ever wanted. I want passionately, arrogantly, violently to become something so deeply unnerving. I want to inspire the weight and the body and the drift that she inspires, that I take from everything.
You would toss me in refuse, not let me be. It's not enough.
Give me everything.
Soften, my love.
Oh the satisfactory raping of my soul when it rains, oh, when it rains. I'm dragged into the pit of the storm, tossed into my inebriation. I want so much to stand within myself and I'm standing there instead, thought and thinking. I want to take from her all of the things I know to be true and I can't even grasp her. I want so much. I want it all.
Give me at least a hair, give me at least the clipping of a nail. Something physical to grasp so that I know this powerful weight is something that I'll eventually witness. I am doused with your wonder, with your grace. I'm so weighed by awe in this rain, dearest, I'm uncovered. I can't image where the breath could take me, how far this breeze, these spittings of water will take me up into the nuances of the universe. I have to imagine that eventually I'll be this good, this strong, this much and yet also never will I be such a massive, overwhelming being.
And I realize now that it's all I've ever wanted. I want passionately, arrogantly, violently to become something so deeply unnerving. I want to inspire the weight and the body and the drift that she inspires, that I take from everything.
You would toss me in refuse, not let me be. It's not enough.
Give me everything.
How fair is it for me to trust you when all the genuine in you is embodied in the women who surround you. The weight of your words, of your world, tosses me into submission. Remind me of my blood, remind me of the blue. I hardly have to think, have to mind my own business -- I have none -- just allow me to sway in your secondary so I might run my thumbs into the smoke and draw my breath deeper. We're walking so slowly into the sand in it wants and we give, I give, I want nothing of myself and then suddenly I do.
You'd kill me, should you have to, you would and that is quite alright because I'd kill you too. Not if I had to, but only if I had reason enough and for someone sweeping the ground in search of able logic, this should come easily, quickly, without thought or trouble. Someone will feed me a story about the way you've wronged us and I'll find my guns and string up your vocal chords, those that leave me deadly and wretched, wrap that in the core beneath the shell and watch the tissue rip through the other end. I belong to no one.
And I rise from the drowning pool of the tub to watch you watching me and waiting to see how long it takes. In wondering whether you're watching to see if I pass or to see if I come up, you remind me of what you are. "You startled me," you say. And so I know. In your stubborn watching, you're waiting for the air.
You know the sound of gasping so well, you hardly recall the sound of breathing and so it catches you when I rise and breathe instead of drink the air as though it were water in a drought, in stifling panic. I did, then, startle you with my slow rise from the fall, awake, not dreaming, opening my eyes to you, breathing slowly and steadily, staring level at your lash line while mine drips with pipe water and you want what from me. What.
And yet heavy again into the deep of still waters and I'll let you try to drown me simply to 'startle' you once again, birth the fright in you, sicken you with chaotic phobia.
For you'd love so deeply to see the same in me.
You'd kill me, should you have to, you would and that is quite alright because I'd kill you too. Not if I had to, but only if I had reason enough and for someone sweeping the ground in search of able logic, this should come easily, quickly, without thought or trouble. Someone will feed me a story about the way you've wronged us and I'll find my guns and string up your vocal chords, those that leave me deadly and wretched, wrap that in the core beneath the shell and watch the tissue rip through the other end. I belong to no one.
And I rise from the drowning pool of the tub to watch you watching me and waiting to see how long it takes. In wondering whether you're watching to see if I pass or to see if I come up, you remind me of what you are. "You startled me," you say. And so I know. In your stubborn watching, you're waiting for the air.
You know the sound of gasping so well, you hardly recall the sound of breathing and so it catches you when I rise and breathe instead of drink the air as though it were water in a drought, in stifling panic. I did, then, startle you with my slow rise from the fall, awake, not dreaming, opening my eyes to you, breathing slowly and steadily, staring level at your lash line while mine drips with pipe water and you want what from me. What.
And yet heavy again into the deep of still waters and I'll let you try to drown me simply to 'startle' you once again, birth the fright in you, sicken you with chaotic phobia.
For you'd love so deeply to see the same in me.
It is the most horrifying thing to pull the music from my ears believing something has sounded, and find myself in abrupt silence.
You kill for your god, for your government, for your family. We kill for ourselves, for our sanity, to disprove the same, to agonize.
I would destroy for a person aligned with my music taste. I would end for a person who might die with me in the noises and rhythms and bass. You say you're willing to watch them die for their opposing beliefs. I'd watch them die to protect one who shared my beliefs. What you think might be right, might be wrong, different as it is, if harm should come to my consort, harm should come to you. I write in hypothetical to indicate my dying promise. My pessimism denies hope of fulfilling this gratitude of fate.
Drag knives across the spun steel to create new sounds and encapsulate my nervous system, create a customary hole in which I might crawl and stay and become humble in the sounds of this violent tantrum offering me a way to my deepest and most rivaled salvation. I want so much from this and in this music I am offered an entire galaxy of regions for exploration and in ways I know them intimately already. Sweet tongue of the non-believer coaxes me inward, brings me to my first tear of the day and spoons me into my last, holds me on the teetering edge and then, letting go, kills me for sake of evolved resurrection. The coils of volume and echo turning my spirit keeps me swaying in distinct cry for more and less simultaneously. I can take no more and yet I cannot bear to see an end to this.
Here I am. These words, these sounds, they're all that I am. I watch myself from a distance, cooing at the world in ways that they might understand, but I am so far away in this place. And I wish not to join these people, these times, these workings. My aging is slower and faster, my cycle is different. I peak in places where others fall and fall in their height. It is so easy to bend my nails back on themselves and rip the skin to see the blood and tissue and bone beneath, but it serves no good. In my dawning I find a lasting, rich, nuanced expression of my faith. I believe in everything and so few things. I am ambivalent by nature, and while I rip at my layered flesh to stay with the part I know to be better, I slip into this sinking dirt, and it wants me, how it wants me.
I don't want it, however. And what I want not shall not have me. All that we choose, we choose. Things so often happen by our choosing in one mind and negate the choice of the other. However, it is the part of me that has this abrupt connection to normalcy that is against the subconscious destruction of any connection I have to it. Contrary to earlier belief, I have actually corrupted and ruined the ugly self turned volatile by submission. We keep ourselves distant so we might observe and stepping past boundary kills us.
I will not die.
So you want a war? Let us have one.
I would destroy for a person aligned with my music taste. I would end for a person who might die with me in the noises and rhythms and bass. You say you're willing to watch them die for their opposing beliefs. I'd watch them die to protect one who shared my beliefs. What you think might be right, might be wrong, different as it is, if harm should come to my consort, harm should come to you. I write in hypothetical to indicate my dying promise. My pessimism denies hope of fulfilling this gratitude of fate.
Drag knives across the spun steel to create new sounds and encapsulate my nervous system, create a customary hole in which I might crawl and stay and become humble in the sounds of this violent tantrum offering me a way to my deepest and most rivaled salvation. I want so much from this and in this music I am offered an entire galaxy of regions for exploration and in ways I know them intimately already. Sweet tongue of the non-believer coaxes me inward, brings me to my first tear of the day and spoons me into my last, holds me on the teetering edge and then, letting go, kills me for sake of evolved resurrection. The coils of volume and echo turning my spirit keeps me swaying in distinct cry for more and less simultaneously. I can take no more and yet I cannot bear to see an end to this.
Here I am. These words, these sounds, they're all that I am. I watch myself from a distance, cooing at the world in ways that they might understand, but I am so far away in this place. And I wish not to join these people, these times, these workings. My aging is slower and faster, my cycle is different. I peak in places where others fall and fall in their height. It is so easy to bend my nails back on themselves and rip the skin to see the blood and tissue and bone beneath, but it serves no good. In my dawning I find a lasting, rich, nuanced expression of my faith. I believe in everything and so few things. I am ambivalent by nature, and while I rip at my layered flesh to stay with the part I know to be better, I slip into this sinking dirt, and it wants me, how it wants me.
I don't want it, however. And what I want not shall not have me. All that we choose, we choose. Things so often happen by our choosing in one mind and negate the choice of the other. However, it is the part of me that has this abrupt connection to normalcy that is against the subconscious destruction of any connection I have to it. Contrary to earlier belief, I have actually corrupted and ruined the ugly self turned volatile by submission. We keep ourselves distant so we might observe and stepping past boundary kills us.
I will not die.
So you want a war? Let us have one.
I watched her while she tilted her head to look me over, watching me, judging me, calculating my response. I had only negated her accusation, but she hated that, we both did, we liked drawn explanations, though I hadn't one to give her. Had I gone missing for three days simply to get away from her? No, I hadn't, but I couldn't yet explain to her why I'd left, who I was going to, who I'd regretfully missed seeing and so returned home to look her in the eye and tell her no, I wasn't running from her and that no, I wouldn't run from her. How true and how strong my voice was in response gave her this tension in her face, it was why she began judging me then, to figure out the whole truth, the one I couldn't give to her.
"I'm sorry," I told her, but she would only look at me, analyze me in her silent regard. "I needed to write." Drawn from history, I offered a reason that I'd offered others, that I give most people. I need to write in tranquil distance from lovers and friends and family so that I might come to some revelation.
Her eyebrows confused me because she was confused as well with what I said. Hurt is what she seemed at first, but the peak of her brows left the rise toward the centre of her face and angled downward into the distinguished anger that put the height toward the outer ends. She was so cold for mere moments and then quickly, she'd turn her brows back up to stark sadness. In between I watched them level in objective judgement where she was back to therapeutic questioning and conclusion drawing between the rise and fall of emotion.
I could hardly look at her while she scraped my being and called me, in silence, a liar and a fraud. I knew what she was doing, trying to guess from the lines on my face and the way that they twitched and trembled what I really meant by write. Who I was watching and writing about, who I needed to follow and experience so that I may write their life in twisted fiction, test them as characters in my new novel and in my handling and self-appointed control, finalize who they were. I had written about her a lifetime ago, the novel before last, and it wasn't until I had coaxed her story out of her and turned it around for publication that she realized what these trips were about. I should have left her.
"What do you want from me?" I asked, knowing so little of what to do that all I did was try not to break eye contact. "What would you like me to say?" I ran my fingers over the back of my arm in modest comfort while I sat in the hot seat. She'd look at me that way for hours. So instead of allowing her to assume that I had run off to have a 72-hour relationship with someone momentarily fascinating, I confirmed it for her. "Fuck you," I said. "I do what I have to in order that I might get my words. You know that. You know that so well."
And that's when she left me, and that's why. I sat in a forest for three days writing a fantasy story about the trees and the gods and she left me. It was backward abandonment I gave her because she didn't ask me what I had done, looked for a reason to pack her things and found it in my defensive defiance and she left me and I let her and that's all.
That's quite all.
"I'm sorry," I told her, but she would only look at me, analyze me in her silent regard. "I needed to write." Drawn from history, I offered a reason that I'd offered others, that I give most people. I need to write in tranquil distance from lovers and friends and family so that I might come to some revelation.
Her eyebrows confused me because she was confused as well with what I said. Hurt is what she seemed at first, but the peak of her brows left the rise toward the centre of her face and angled downward into the distinguished anger that put the height toward the outer ends. She was so cold for mere moments and then quickly, she'd turn her brows back up to stark sadness. In between I watched them level in objective judgement where she was back to therapeutic questioning and conclusion drawing between the rise and fall of emotion.
I could hardly look at her while she scraped my being and called me, in silence, a liar and a fraud. I knew what she was doing, trying to guess from the lines on my face and the way that they twitched and trembled what I really meant by write. Who I was watching and writing about, who I needed to follow and experience so that I may write their life in twisted fiction, test them as characters in my new novel and in my handling and self-appointed control, finalize who they were. I had written about her a lifetime ago, the novel before last, and it wasn't until I had coaxed her story out of her and turned it around for publication that she realized what these trips were about. I should have left her.
"What do you want from me?" I asked, knowing so little of what to do that all I did was try not to break eye contact. "What would you like me to say?" I ran my fingers over the back of my arm in modest comfort while I sat in the hot seat. She'd look at me that way for hours. So instead of allowing her to assume that I had run off to have a 72-hour relationship with someone momentarily fascinating, I confirmed it for her. "Fuck you," I said. "I do what I have to in order that I might get my words. You know that. You know that so well."
And that's when she left me, and that's why. I sat in a forest for three days writing a fantasy story about the trees and the gods and she left me. It was backward abandonment I gave her because she didn't ask me what I had done, looked for a reason to pack her things and found it in my defensive defiance and she left me and I let her and that's all.
That's quite all.
You know, there's a whole world of joy out there waiting for me to have it. And a whole world of music for me to discover some of that joy. I take it all oppositely and today has been the strangest most intense day somehow. Nothing has happened, but then everything too. Shift the weight to better your footing and there you are, at peace.
We are.
I can live this life until I've begun. I can do this and so can you and we'll be there together soon. It's simple. I want so much from this world and I truly need to stop and slow down and let it lead me sometimes. We do the things we must do.
Winter lows.
Summer lows.
Only at the turning of the season am I high. And sometimes always, and sometimes never.
And sometimes I can't breathe and no one is saying anything and there I am, wishing, wallowing, wondering.
Despite my cavalry, I am losing. The navy is sunk and my artillery is being debunked. Oh sweet passionate disposition I miss you dearly.
Remember when I could write?
I remembered another 'remember when', love. Remember when I was crazy? When I loved so deeply I wanted to die? Remember that? I do. I want it back. I wrote so pretentiously then, so crimson red and internal that by the end I was turning over. I want to be passionate again, the way I used to be when I could write. I want the pulls and I want to lose it. I want to have it all, you see? Because it's the deranged friend of mine that visits every so often who keeps me from accomplishing things and yet I want it since it helps me write. It's there that I hate the world and can't bear to see it, but also when I become so good at commentary. It is in those moments of powerful ruthlessness that I am able to say all these things... but I cannot work, not outside of my head. And I cannot move forward. And I am stuck in this place torn between business and pleasure, realism and Dionysus.
Remember when I managed it all? I can't. I can't remember anything.
Summer lows.
Only at the turning of the season am I high. And sometimes always, and sometimes never.
And sometimes I can't breathe and no one is saying anything and there I am, wishing, wallowing, wondering.
Despite my cavalry, I am losing. The navy is sunk and my artillery is being debunked. Oh sweet passionate disposition I miss you dearly.
Remember when I could write?
I remembered another 'remember when', love. Remember when I was crazy? When I loved so deeply I wanted to die? Remember that? I do. I want it back. I wrote so pretentiously then, so crimson red and internal that by the end I was turning over. I want to be passionate again, the way I used to be when I could write. I want the pulls and I want to lose it. I want to have it all, you see? Because it's the deranged friend of mine that visits every so often who keeps me from accomplishing things and yet I want it since it helps me write. It's there that I hate the world and can't bear to see it, but also when I become so good at commentary. It is in those moments of powerful ruthlessness that I am able to say all these things... but I cannot work, not outside of my head. And I cannot move forward. And I am stuck in this place torn between business and pleasure, realism and Dionysus.
Remember when I managed it all? I can't. I can't remember anything.
Shit happens and people will judge you and what you suppress eventually pours out and people witness your mania and so you have to pretend that it's a mad crazy moment in your life and not the actual you.
It isn't you know. The actual you is what you've created. Or it will be. Eventually.
It isn't you know. The actual you is what you've created. Or it will be. Eventually.
Imagine.
Footsteps walk ahead of you, and in line with destiny, possibly proposed by one's self, you walk intuitively into the steps which are marked before you. In this you erase it, erase the punctures and flatten the earth behind you, clearing the path so that another may create their prints along it, calling it their own in their lack of knowledge.
This is not your own path and yet alone you make it, you walk into the steps you've printed ahead of you, fill the craters instead of making them, and it is only when you look somberly down at your feet that you experience the alleged deja vu.
I look over my hands and cannot quit weeping. I could not be so happy. There is a spine in my back and a mind in my head and in their connection I move and make the right choice. In sitting, I think and recall what used to be, what will be. Where on earth I am going. The exact words of the worlds which permeate the future are running miles ahead of thought and yet here I am, running quickly, catching up.
I want so many things and I realize that in living I am walking to all of them. The young woman who turns the eyes of whom she pleases; this is a future of mine. I try best to stay quiet and watch and in a way I realize my plans to become what I wish. It is best to watch and think but also do. I learn quietly that my ambitions are not too great; I do not want too much. I want, in contrast, far too little. It is possible to have all the things I suppose and also it is possible to have none of them. What is necessary is the balance of speaking and listening. To talk and to listen. To write and to do. I often separate my life from my book and it is amusing to note who I write about is myself. These other people, these figures in the way, are walking backward as I go forward and we cross, our prints, for a while perhaps, align, but permanence cannot exist. Our paths, though similar, perhaps parallel, are not the same. We are able to hold hands and yet weave around mailboxes and trees by raising our arms to stretch out or coming close together to slip between--respectively. And while we stretch apart we fondly recall each other, walking in separate paths, walking in two different worlds, our perception differed until the trees, too close to reach round and too high still for our arms, we cling together and share warmth and embrace and love so passionately for we've been far from each other, what with all the mail.
Some though, may only hold hands for a moment. And instead of instinctively clinging together, we simply let go in the face of trees and run oppositely in an attempt to find way 'round to the other side. In some ways this release is accidental, in others, this is a necessary act and reuniting never happens. The size of our hands have changed, and mine, now aged, cannot fit so comfortably in yours.
So much and so little, it seems. And so quickly we forget how drawn and drawing I may become. I sometimes pull the other closer to me when the trees arrive. To dictate amount of interaction we may have, pull you away from the path you had previously written in order to draw you into mine for just a while longer. Still our hands change, but now we are ended like the drag of a serrated knife, slowly, with cutting pangs of roughness.
________
Hold your breath.
Footsteps walk ahead of you, and in line with destiny, possibly proposed by one's self, you walk intuitively into the steps which are marked before you. In this you erase it, erase the punctures and flatten the earth behind you, clearing the path so that another may create their prints along it, calling it their own in their lack of knowledge.
This is not your own path and yet alone you make it, you walk into the steps you've printed ahead of you, fill the craters instead of making them, and it is only when you look somberly down at your feet that you experience the alleged deja vu.
I look over my hands and cannot quit weeping. I could not be so happy. There is a spine in my back and a mind in my head and in their connection I move and make the right choice. In sitting, I think and recall what used to be, what will be. Where on earth I am going. The exact words of the worlds which permeate the future are running miles ahead of thought and yet here I am, running quickly, catching up.
I want so many things and I realize that in living I am walking to all of them. The young woman who turns the eyes of whom she pleases; this is a future of mine. I try best to stay quiet and watch and in a way I realize my plans to become what I wish. It is best to watch and think but also do. I learn quietly that my ambitions are not too great; I do not want too much. I want, in contrast, far too little. It is possible to have all the things I suppose and also it is possible to have none of them. What is necessary is the balance of speaking and listening. To talk and to listen. To write and to do. I often separate my life from my book and it is amusing to note who I write about is myself. These other people, these figures in the way, are walking backward as I go forward and we cross, our prints, for a while perhaps, align, but permanence cannot exist. Our paths, though similar, perhaps parallel, are not the same. We are able to hold hands and yet weave around mailboxes and trees by raising our arms to stretch out or coming close together to slip between--respectively. And while we stretch apart we fondly recall each other, walking in separate paths, walking in two different worlds, our perception differed until the trees, too close to reach round and too high still for our arms, we cling together and share warmth and embrace and love so passionately for we've been far from each other, what with all the mail.
Some though, may only hold hands for a moment. And instead of instinctively clinging together, we simply let go in the face of trees and run oppositely in an attempt to find way 'round to the other side. In some ways this release is accidental, in others, this is a necessary act and reuniting never happens. The size of our hands have changed, and mine, now aged, cannot fit so comfortably in yours.
So much and so little, it seems. And so quickly we forget how drawn and drawing I may become. I sometimes pull the other closer to me when the trees arrive. To dictate amount of interaction we may have, pull you away from the path you had previously written in order to draw you into mine for just a while longer. Still our hands change, but now we are ended like the drag of a serrated knife, slowly, with cutting pangs of roughness.
________
Hold your breath.
I can't imagine how long its been since I've been this way.
We blog, we write stories and to what grounds. I must imagine that this is taking me no where and that in my scholarly pursuits I'm going to die. I don't mean that. I mean all the things my mother meant me to be I will likely be and in defeat it will be easy.
The simplicity of this is that there are only two people in this world. The self and the other, and in that broad comparison, one usually realizes that self and other still share one coin. It is easy to mark on the simplicity of difference but the burden of similarity is a hidden knowledge that aches.
In the basic reflection of the other, we note our own issues. We note what we are, and what we are not, but more clearly, what we claim to be and to not be are not what is truth, Not necessarily. In the passive definition of others, we eliminate our greys and colour ourselves black in contrast to the bare white. It is simpler to call ourselves opposing, but must we not then be comparable? Our opposition places us neatly on the same spectrum. And how narrow the spectrum becomes when words are confused and we jumble our sentences. We make slips to contradict ourselves from the other and in that we create ourselves in the form of a lie. We are not who we are not. Not necessarily.
Not necessarily.
We blog, we write stories and to what grounds. I must imagine that this is taking me no where and that in my scholarly pursuits I'm going to die. I don't mean that. I mean all the things my mother meant me to be I will likely be and in defeat it will be easy.
The simplicity of this is that there are only two people in this world. The self and the other, and in that broad comparison, one usually realizes that self and other still share one coin. It is easy to mark on the simplicity of difference but the burden of similarity is a hidden knowledge that aches.
In the basic reflection of the other, we note our own issues. We note what we are, and what we are not, but more clearly, what we claim to be and to not be are not what is truth, Not necessarily. In the passive definition of others, we eliminate our greys and colour ourselves black in contrast to the bare white. It is simpler to call ourselves opposing, but must we not then be comparable? Our opposition places us neatly on the same spectrum. And how narrow the spectrum becomes when words are confused and we jumble our sentences. We make slips to contradict ourselves from the other and in that we create ourselves in the form of a lie. We are not who we are not. Not necessarily.
Not necessarily.
What then?
What worlds do pass freely over head and say nothing to us.
How the mother speaks leaves our own chests fallen,
breathless. And so we, her children, guarded by her fate,
question our desires. What world? Where then does this world
meet the next and how far from that point do we stand.
Nearer to it than to you and to them I find myself sitting
still in silent torment and praying for nothing simple.
Where then?
Where do the turns of the scoping eye lead sight and
by which route do we discover our mound descending below;
tasting the Acheron and flooding the perfect river there to rise
up into the sky with grace and beauty. Similar, then,
to the god of the sea
And under influence of no one, we flee.
What worlds do pass freely over head and say nothing to us.
How the mother speaks leaves our own chests fallen,
breathless. And so we, her children, guarded by her fate,
question our desires. What world? Where then does this world
meet the next and how far from that point do we stand.
Nearer to it than to you and to them I find myself sitting
still in silent torment and praying for nothing simple.
Where then?
Where do the turns of the scoping eye lead sight and
by which route do we discover our mound descending below;
tasting the Acheron and flooding the perfect river there to rise
up into the sky with grace and beauty. Similar, then,
to the god of the sea
And under influence of no one, we flee.
I question my answers so often that at times, usually, I am suffered into discomfort of my idle decision. With great function I recognize that I am doing nothing of which I wish to be doing, my direction is flawed; going, I am halted. In a perpetual state of circumstance I find myself laughing that those I praised and yet never praising though at whom I have laughed. It in in this unexpected blur of nonparallel structures that I debate.
Why we plan for the future so intently without knowledge of its destined arrival is beyond my judgement. Our knowledge therein is pertaining to what facts? That others have lived long and so then shall we? We are a paradoxical state surfing on the technological fancy chocking ourselves within our state of mind and describing to others 'the way that we feel' by way of brevity. Brevity may be the soul of wit, but it is not the soul of essence, for essence is long and is stubborn in existence. It will not leave and so then neither shall this thing which you push to brevity until you give yourself to essence and allow it to guide you into the proper form for whatever means you mean to mean.
Why we plan for the future so intently without knowledge of its destined arrival is beyond my judgement. Our knowledge therein is pertaining to what facts? That others have lived long and so then shall we? We are a paradoxical state surfing on the technological fancy chocking ourselves within our state of mind and describing to others 'the way that we feel' by way of brevity. Brevity may be the soul of wit, but it is not the soul of essence, for essence is long and is stubborn in existence. It will not leave and so then neither shall this thing which you push to brevity until you give yourself to essence and allow it to guide you into the proper form for whatever means you mean to mean.
I am so endlessly preoccupied with myself that at times I forget who I'm thinking of. We are all sitting quietly within our own magazines in full gowns, gracing centerfolds and praying for the moment that someone might open up that magazine of yours and awe themselves at your magnificence in a steep desire to someday be so elegant and worthy of worship. Who do my thoughts linger to and what difference does it make really; I ask these questions without inquisition to answering. I want nothing or response or proof or merit, not that you would offer me such graces.
I peer into eyes that aren't peering back so often that each time one peers at me I diligently stab it to death in hopes that I can control something. I love you. You want to love me back?
But then who don't I love? I ask everyone for their hand simply to keep them to myself and then what. Nothing of it, and nothing anticipated means that I have yet to have been disappointed. I recall my own favours softly and pass one hand to the next and rewrite the things I can't bear to say and so twice written: I love you. You want to love me back?
At times I value my own presence more than the oxygen around me and in some ways I do enjoy humans. The way they coax around me for my ability to read their minds and know what they mean to say or speak or move. I dance within them and they've yet to have noticed. I grasp them so tightly that it isn't until I'm pushing them that they've even noticed my had at their throat and even so, they love me. And I love you. And we are so far from each other.
I sometimes stab at my will simply to see how strong I can make myself, for I've yet to have died. There is a place in my at this moment that is coiling, but otherwise I am well. I have to imagine that by the end of my reaping, I will have fallen over with the dead ones. No one ends marriages, you see. Everyone just dies. And the most modest thing about that is when their skirts don't fly over their heads as they're falling. I have lost so much faith I wonder if I'll die and linger simply into blackness.
A plain coloured cup is so much more valuable than it's pretty coutnerpart, but only for function. And since we needn't always use a cup (for there are glasses around) the pretty one is better. And so I stay, watching my collection of pretty china tea cups waiting for one to tip off the table and beg me for glue. I hold each blade gently and then for days piece my insignificant friend back to life only so that this glue so super would keep us bound endlessly. Eventually the difference between hand and glue and porcelain become invisible and insignificant. And so, while we all rise and fall in our own nuances, we are also crawling around in dirt, waiting for the next cup.
Our hands are eventually dirtied and covered and we can no longer hold onto all of them and so we scrape the earlier forms away with the skin and grow new skin to hold new things. And the old are swept and thrown and the new are held so dearly until they too are swept and thrown and so on because eventually everything is bloodied and nothing is beautiful and you are searching for that simple cup and it is far away and so close and it is quietly, stubbornly you. And these cups are glued so well, so perfectly that in their removal one must remove their hands and instead of holding onto something foolish and useless, you remove all the skin from your hands and wait for it all to grow back and it takes years, but there you are. There is that plain cup sitting in your stomach, never letting go, filling and emptying, strong, dynamite.
Easily, it is forgotten, but not for long. The ugly scars on your hands are there and so are you in the mirror. You apply these lotions and quarrel with solutions for so long that the mirror becomes your new shards and so long you are healing that you must truly wonder who is staring at whom. I wonder still which entity is watching whom. Do I love or loath more often and even so, does one count more because it is simply stronger and not the better part of me?
I wonder sheepishly how much this matters and more than that, I choose not to care. So long as I have my mirror or my tea cups or whichever suits my fancy. I wonder too which fancy I fancy most and which of them will pass my fancy quickest.
Tomorrow is another day of this, and so Sunday and Monday and the weeks and months and years to come and I can no longer question my fate because I cannot think of the correct question. I do not want to know it all, nor the answer. I suppose I want to know what the question is.
And no one will ever be willing to disclose such private information to a book like me.
I peer into eyes that aren't peering back so often that each time one peers at me I diligently stab it to death in hopes that I can control something. I love you. You want to love me back?
But then who don't I love? I ask everyone for their hand simply to keep them to myself and then what. Nothing of it, and nothing anticipated means that I have yet to have been disappointed. I recall my own favours softly and pass one hand to the next and rewrite the things I can't bear to say and so twice written: I love you. You want to love me back?
At times I value my own presence more than the oxygen around me and in some ways I do enjoy humans. The way they coax around me for my ability to read their minds and know what they mean to say or speak or move. I dance within them and they've yet to have noticed. I grasp them so tightly that it isn't until I'm pushing them that they've even noticed my had at their throat and even so, they love me. And I love you. And we are so far from each other.
I sometimes stab at my will simply to see how strong I can make myself, for I've yet to have died. There is a place in my at this moment that is coiling, but otherwise I am well. I have to imagine that by the end of my reaping, I will have fallen over with the dead ones. No one ends marriages, you see. Everyone just dies. And the most modest thing about that is when their skirts don't fly over their heads as they're falling. I have lost so much faith I wonder if I'll die and linger simply into blackness.
A plain coloured cup is so much more valuable than it's pretty coutnerpart, but only for function. And since we needn't always use a cup (for there are glasses around) the pretty one is better. And so I stay, watching my collection of pretty china tea cups waiting for one to tip off the table and beg me for glue. I hold each blade gently and then for days piece my insignificant friend back to life only so that this glue so super would keep us bound endlessly. Eventually the difference between hand and glue and porcelain become invisible and insignificant. And so, while we all rise and fall in our own nuances, we are also crawling around in dirt, waiting for the next cup.
Our hands are eventually dirtied and covered and we can no longer hold onto all of them and so we scrape the earlier forms away with the skin and grow new skin to hold new things. And the old are swept and thrown and the new are held so dearly until they too are swept and thrown and so on because eventually everything is bloodied and nothing is beautiful and you are searching for that simple cup and it is far away and so close and it is quietly, stubbornly you. And these cups are glued so well, so perfectly that in their removal one must remove their hands and instead of holding onto something foolish and useless, you remove all the skin from your hands and wait for it all to grow back and it takes years, but there you are. There is that plain cup sitting in your stomach, never letting go, filling and emptying, strong, dynamite.
Easily, it is forgotten, but not for long. The ugly scars on your hands are there and so are you in the mirror. You apply these lotions and quarrel with solutions for so long that the mirror becomes your new shards and so long you are healing that you must truly wonder who is staring at whom. I wonder still which entity is watching whom. Do I love or loath more often and even so, does one count more because it is simply stronger and not the better part of me?
I wonder sheepishly how much this matters and more than that, I choose not to care. So long as I have my mirror or my tea cups or whichever suits my fancy. I wonder too which fancy I fancy most and which of them will pass my fancy quickest.
Tomorrow is another day of this, and so Sunday and Monday and the weeks and months and years to come and I can no longer question my fate because I cannot think of the correct question. I do not want to know it all, nor the answer. I suppose I want to know what the question is.
And no one will ever be willing to disclose such private information to a book like me.
Aren't you?
It's so brilliant how the corners of the mouth pull into a smirk instead of a smile when 'if only I could have her' turns to 'i will have her'.
How simple. My outlook has been wrong all this time.
It's so brilliant how the corners of the mouth pull into a smirk instead of a smile when 'if only I could have her' turns to 'i will have her'.
How simple. My outlook has been wrong all this time.
Aren't you falling?
I am.
Die with me.
/MagnoliaHoursRachelGettingMarriedBlackS
The rest
The rest.
The rest.
I am.
Die with me.
/MagnoliaHoursRachelGettingMarriedBlackS
The rest
The rest.
The rest.
Who the fuck are you, who the fuck do you think you are? I come in here, you don't know me, you don't know who I am, what my life is, and you have the balls, the indecency to ask me a question about my life?
Please, lady, why don't you calm down - ?
Fuck you, too! Don't you call me "lady". I come in here, I give these things to you, you check, you make your phone calls, look suspicious, ask questions. I'm sick. I have sickness all around me and you fucking ask me my life? "What's wrong?" Have you seen death in your bed? In your house? Where's your fucking decency? And then I'm asked fucking questions. What's... wrong? You suck my dick. That's what's wrong. And you, you fucking call me "lady"? Shame on you. Shame on you. Shame on both of you.
Please, lady, why don't you calm down - ?
Fuck you, too! Don't you call me "lady". I come in here, I give these things to you, you check, you make your phone calls, look suspicious, ask questions. I'm sick. I have sickness all around me and you fucking ask me my life? "What's wrong?" Have you seen death in your bed? In your house? Where's your fucking decency? And then I'm asked fucking questions. What's... wrong? You suck my dick. That's what's wrong. And you, you fucking call me "lady"? Shame on you. Shame on you. Shame on both of you.
This cannot be "One of Those Things... " This, please, cannot be that. And for what I would like to say, I can't.
This was not just A Matter Of Chance. Oh. These strange things happen all the time.
This was not just A Matter Of Chance. Oh. These strange things happen all the time.
I am always trying to keep up with your posterity as you attempt to public relieve yourself of your sanity and grace. I wonder, scopingly, how long it will take for you to notice how much of a fraud you are.
You are actually an unimpressive person. A disruptively unimpressive person. What tragedy, hm? What will become of you.
Divine, more so than the heaven above, is this desire to be something. It must be. In that forgotten wit you mark and claim existence, I swirl around and seduce. Your toying will get you only so far. Your age humors me as well. It's ridiculous the life one might lead in a single day (And in that day [someone's] whole life).
I ache for you, you know that? It's strange how badly I want you to grow up and be something, but you are turning yourself into this helpless porous thing. This helpless, porous, feeble, pathetic, dying, ugly thing.
Thing.
And then floating across your ache to be alive, is your ache to die, so that you can finally be appreciated. How tragic it is that the people who deserve none of it, get it, and those who might deserve it die before they do. I want you to right the world. I want you to stay alive and unappreciated so that you can finally understand what your worth should be. I want you to die quietly and unheard. I want you to disappear. Just like the rest of us.
I'll do you a favour too. I'll give you precisely what you deserve. And I'll come to your funeral, old and beautiful, and stare, emptily, into your casket and chuckle softly to myself. I'll look around the empty room and kiss your face. I'll listen to the nuances of the priest and the radical moaning of that girl who seems to care (enough to pretend at the very least) and I will applaud her performance, for she has played this role so well. I will watch you missing her performance and notice the poison wearing off, stumble around in mock despair and make certain you drop six feet under before you stir into alertness.
I know exactly how to play this, and I know exactly how to make this better. And so, while the casket seals and drops to a subtle thud I will pat my eyes dry, and while the dirt drops into the hole, I will walk away. Sunglasses returned to face, and sun hat pulled low. And while my coat moves against me, I press toward my car, and drive. Never mind the hat, it has fallen now.
And in knowing I've played this well, my brows turn down and finally I smile.
You're very welcome, darling.
My sweet sweet love, you are so owed this favour. For who else would end you so beautifully.
Who else?
I, like God, do not play with dice and I don't believe in coincidences.
Everyone wants to fucking kill themselves.
Fuck this.
Fuck me.
Fuck you too.
Mother fucker.
I casually learn to give less and less of a shit each day.
I just want to wander around for a while. I want to go home.
I want to walk around or sit around or whatever.
I have work tomorrow. I'm so tired. I'm so awake. I want a drink. I want to turn myself upside-down. I want numb. I want desensitization. I want starvation. I want quietness. I want loudness. I want it all. I want control. I want. I want. I want. We want.
Let's just kill each other so we don't have to kill ourselves.
No one cries for a suicidal maniac.
No one misses crazy people.
No one does.
No one
No.
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU.
Fuck this.
Fuck me.
Fuck you too.
Mother fucker.
I casually learn to give less and less of a shit each day.
I just want to wander around for a while. I want to go home.
I want to walk around or sit around or whatever.
I have work tomorrow. I'm so tired. I'm so awake. I want a drink. I want to turn myself upside-down. I want numb. I want desensitization. I want starvation. I want quietness. I want loudness. I want it all. I want control. I want. I want. I want. We want.
Let's just kill each other so we don't have to kill ourselves.
No one cries for a suicidal maniac.
No one misses crazy people.
No one does.
No one
No.
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU.
I want you to notice
when I'm not around.
You're so fucking special.
I wish I was special.
when I'm not around.
You're so fucking special.
I wish I was special.
I have never in my life laughed so hard inwardly. I hope you realize that I am quietly judging you.
More than that, I hope you realize that I judge you quietly as modest entertainment when the windows are shut and it seeks me.
Could you be more transparent.
Opaque has never suited you. I have never met a more transparent person in my life. It takes a moment for eyes to adjust to such flaming fluidity. Hidden in plain view, as it were. These are the people who leave you. These are them, those who know. Those who can see through you leave you because you are nothing. You are bottled oxygen in the rainforest. What use. What use?
Quis hic locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga?
Vita est simplex.
Neca homines stultos.
Vive cum impetu amini.
Simplex.
What place is right. What place.
Hic est fortunatus.
Whatever makes you happy
Whatever you want
You're so fuckin' special
I wish I was special
Why can't you simply say that you want to kill yourself. You want to devour all the advil you have left and die into your sleep. You want to choke yourself. You are ugly and you are fat and you are stupid and you are crazy and so is this day. You want death so badly, you can hardly think. Why can't you just say that. Why can't you just say "kill me" and mean it. Why can't you just do it. Why are you still here. What are you doing. Why can't you just kill yourself. Why haven't you done it already. Why are you still typing. Who cares what they think. Who cares what they say. You're a goner. You're deceased.
And so you may as well disappear.
And so you may as well disappear.
Today I have learned of my own lack of will.
Today I am the worst.
Today I am the fattest.
Today is my last of eating
Today is the worst
Today I hate everything
Today, I recounted the whole situation to a friend of mine and I think I'm disturbed by the whole thing. How much control have I truly?
It's interesting how quickly I became this maniacal possessive creature, and how quickly I see it happening again. How much I know I can control, how much I seek to tie others down.
I hate food.
I hate eating.
It's disgusting. It's all disgusting.
And so I discuss it here because I obviously have trouble committing this logic to memory. If I eat tomorrow, I'll kill myself.
FUHFUHFUHFUHFUH
Cherry blossom girl just came on. I am swept. I f I simply listen to music and read and occupy myself tomorrow, it will all work.
Asian girls use extreme dieting because it works. Clearly.
How how how how how how how.
I'm so confused today.
Who the fuck is writing this shit.
Today I am the worst.
Today I am the fattest.
Today is my last of eating
Today is the worst
Today I hate everything
Today, I recounted the whole situation to a friend of mine and I think I'm disturbed by the whole thing. How much control have I truly?
It's interesting how quickly I became this maniacal possessive creature, and how quickly I see it happening again. How much I know I can control, how much I seek to tie others down.
I hate food.
I hate eating.
It's disgusting. It's all disgusting.
And so I discuss it here because I obviously have trouble committing this logic to memory. If I eat tomorrow, I'll kill myself.
FUHFUHFUHFUHFUH
Cherry blossom girl just came on. I am swept. I f I simply listen to music and read and occupy myself tomorrow, it will all work.
Asian girls use extreme dieting because it works. Clearly.
How how how how how how how.
I'm so confused today.
Who the fuck is writing this shit.
Everyday, at least once a day, even when I'm at my best, though moreso when I'm at my worst, I fantasize about my own death.
And everyday, at least once a day, even when I'm at my best, though moreso when I'm at my worst, I cannot commit.
And some days you only take half as many Advil as can kill you, some days more than, but always at least one because the chemical buildup is sure to end you eventually, albeit unexpectedly.
Every day, some days. What's the difference.
And everyday, at least once a day, even when I'm at my best, though moreso when I'm at my worst, I cannot commit.
And some days you only take half as many Advil as can kill you, some days more than, but always at least one because the chemical buildup is sure to end you eventually, albeit unexpectedly.
Every day, some days. What's the difference.
I think more than anything else, any other traits, any other stigmas and idealizations, I could never date a person with dissimilar music taste to me. As a matter of fact, I can hardly have friends who do not understand at least some of my music taste. All my relationships are based on music. All my interests? Music too.
All my favourite things in the whole world, aside from writing alone, are derived from music. I can't fathom my world without a song to sing. I cannot fathom a friendship without silent enjoyment of melody and verse. What I cannot fathom most is forever quietness. I wish I could sing, I pray I never lose my hearing, never. I want to be able to enjoy this world for the rest of my life.
I think that if deafness ever caught my ears, death would catch my body and so my soul would go where it goes and into the dirt my weight would be placed. Wherever the soul goes, there must be music, for without such, even it would die. All of me would die. And you would read these things as the histories of a former.
There's such a chill, such a chill.
All my favourite things in the whole world, aside from writing alone, are derived from music. I can't fathom my world without a song to sing. I cannot fathom a friendship without silent enjoyment of melody and verse. What I cannot fathom most is forever quietness. I wish I could sing, I pray I never lose my hearing, never. I want to be able to enjoy this world for the rest of my life.
I think that if deafness ever caught my ears, death would catch my body and so my soul would go where it goes and into the dirt my weight would be placed. Wherever the soul goes, there must be music, for without such, even it would die. All of me would die. And you would read these things as the histories of a former.
There's such a chill, such a chill.
We circle in our own desires quietly, ever quietly to somehow arrive at where we've settled. I cannot fathom waking up to a brighter morning and yet lingering beneath my stomach is the sickness and dawning desire to collapse my efforts and fly off a building. I have to imagine that flying is like falling in reverse which is simply a fightening experience turned upside-down. Ignoring the quality of my state, I sense a reconnect, a feeling of deepening aspirations to become the dirt in the ground. How much closer can I be to mother besides dissolving into her. It, I think, is the only way perhaps to truly connect with her and were I strong enough in mind and spirit, I would jump into the well and rot there, waiting for me ascension into her calming arms. The complexity of her embrace twists at my curiosity and more than that, it toys with my membrane, tickling me into fever and lapses of failure and remorse. I am nothing until then.
I am nothing,
Brown
I am nothing,
Brown
Tonight is the strangest night. Default my world being confused, default hatred, default, what the fuck? Anyway.
I think the reason I have all these friends that I'm losing commonality with is because at the very least, these annoyingly psychotic people are fun to watch. The people I adore are simple in style and opportunity and so I have to insist that by the end of it all, I'll have them and they'll have me and everyone else, fleeting as they are, will do so, will fleet.
Vita est simplex. So I know, and that simplicity creates a pleasure that makes it easy to come by all my luck and honestly, no one ever know with which title I bother to recognize myself anymore. It keeps the johnny light-hearts separate from the heavy blooded armed sailors willing to die for our cause.
All my friends are boring though, all of them. Even the ones that are entertaining, they're boring in different ways.
This thing tomorrow is going to be interesting. I'm wondering what to wear to such an interesting occasion. What if there are pictures. I'll have to be perfect.
Fancy that.
Brown
I think the reason I have all these friends that I'm losing commonality with is because at the very least, these annoyingly psychotic people are fun to watch. The people I adore are simple in style and opportunity and so I have to insist that by the end of it all, I'll have them and they'll have me and everyone else, fleeting as they are, will do so, will fleet.
Vita est simplex. So I know, and that simplicity creates a pleasure that makes it easy to come by all my luck and honestly, no one ever know with which title I bother to recognize myself anymore. It keeps the johnny light-hearts separate from the heavy blooded armed sailors willing to die for our cause.
All my friends are boring though, all of them. Even the ones that are entertaining, they're boring in different ways.
This thing tomorrow is going to be interesting. I'm wondering what to wear to such an interesting occasion. What if there are pictures. I'll have to be perfect.
Fancy that.
Brown
If I suck in, I look perfect. (From the hips up)
And in the words of a genius I know, "perfection is standard"
So, I'll have to develop a concave stomach.
Working on it.
And in the words of a genius I know, "perfection is standard"
So, I'll have to develop a concave stomach.
Working on it.
Sometimes after discussing the horrors of my friends with others, I realize how oafish the people I hang out with can be. Can you imagine how many people I learn to hate in just one year? I can't, I don't even know the numbers. It's at least one new one every year, so I know I hate at least 16 people, for we do not hate when we do not know how to hate. I hate everyone most of all, people as a collective is always so much worse than a person on their own, never better.
Sometimes, despite my aspirations to be logical, I cannot commit myself to reason with these people. It's just so beyond the faculty of the norm that I feel as though logic has no role. Weird too. Consider the following:
I have a friend who is cruel and unjust, she is stupid and terrible and sometimes I just want to pick at her brain just to see if it tastes like rubber. That would be an interesting taste, actually, more interesting than plastic or dirt. More than that though, is that she's so moderate in her relationship with me that I have to wonder what it is. I don't understand most people, but her I understand better than I think she'd like me to. I commit her to simple definitions because it pleases her to think I know less than I know. Her 'understated' sense of anti-conformity is something to be mentioned, but not discussed for sake of sanity and more than even that is her laughable acknowledgment of no one worth the time. She exhausts me.
She exhausts me.
But more than anything else, she is frivolous and opportunist. And that is likely why I hate her most.
Anyway, the rest of her is okay, I guess, funny sometimes, interesting at best, but never anything so special that it can't be found anywhere else. How hilarious it is how people hate. I hate everyone and everything and even you despite my gratefulness for your reading this. Because even as I type it, I know how wrongly you'll have read it. How you won't interpret it correctly nor understand why I have her as my so-called friend, why she's still around and why I care to bother. More so, you'll count more on my hypocrisy than anything else and more than even that is the exhausting complexity with which you'll read every word I write.
You. I hate you most of all. You who thinks I'm speaking of you, you who thinks you know me best, you who swears I've changed so much. I couldn't be any more like myself than in this moment, wasting time typing and thinking instead of studying the way I should be.
Fuck you indifference.
Did you know that women are more keen to take difference to what others do or say while men cannot care? I should be more like a man, marry a woman and kill her by letting her kill herself. Maybe my indirect form of murder will satisfy my desire to kill everyone.
I'll be a widow then.
Perfect.
Brown
Sometimes, despite my aspirations to be logical, I cannot commit myself to reason with these people. It's just so beyond the faculty of the norm that I feel as though logic has no role. Weird too. Consider the following:
I have a friend who is cruel and unjust, she is stupid and terrible and sometimes I just want to pick at her brain just to see if it tastes like rubber. That would be an interesting taste, actually, more interesting than plastic or dirt. More than that though, is that she's so moderate in her relationship with me that I have to wonder what it is. I don't understand most people, but her I understand better than I think she'd like me to. I commit her to simple definitions because it pleases her to think I know less than I know. Her 'understated' sense of anti-conformity is something to be mentioned, but not discussed for sake of sanity and more than even that is her laughable acknowledgment of no one worth the time. She exhausts me.
She exhausts me.
But more than anything else, she is frivolous and opportunist. And that is likely why I hate her most.
Anyway, the rest of her is okay, I guess, funny sometimes, interesting at best, but never anything so special that it can't be found anywhere else. How hilarious it is how people hate. I hate everyone and everything and even you despite my gratefulness for your reading this. Because even as I type it, I know how wrongly you'll have read it. How you won't interpret it correctly nor understand why I have her as my so-called friend, why she's still around and why I care to bother. More so, you'll count more on my hypocrisy than anything else and more than even that is the exhausting complexity with which you'll read every word I write.
You. I hate you most of all. You who thinks I'm speaking of you, you who thinks you know me best, you who swears I've changed so much. I couldn't be any more like myself than in this moment, wasting time typing and thinking instead of studying the way I should be.
Fuck you indifference.
Did you know that women are more keen to take difference to what others do or say while men cannot care? I should be more like a man, marry a woman and kill her by letting her kill herself. Maybe my indirect form of murder will satisfy my desire to kill everyone.
I'll be a widow then.
Perfect.
Brown
Besides that though, I was walking home today and it was probably the foggiest day I've seen since I was 12 and the playground turned into a commercial for the Gap. Listening to Florence, I somehow came to this inane conclusion that I am only attracted to girls because they have an underlying connection with the mother that the male population cannot conceive. It occurs to me that in every girl I meet I look for the mother in them, hoping to absorb every aspect of her that I can, take it from them, and in this way because more like Mother.
I admire her, but I'm beginning to worship her. She's becoming my only religion, the only one that makes sense. I suppose that I associate men with spawn, and spawn with evil. They are born evil, born out of mother so that she can be rid of the negativity in herself. In a way, I suppose it's the purpose of childbirth down here as well, it's just that our women aren't so pure. The Mother does not exist strongly enough in any of them for it to assimilate that sort of perfection.
As I was saying though, the mother exists in every girl. No. Every woman. She trades a bit of their evil for a bit of her good and then breeds the evil into men. I think my attraction to men is in that perfect evil as well. My attraction to people is in their necessary spiritual good and evil, their self-righteous sense of being is defined by the feeble lack of control on their part of who they are and what they might be. It's weird the way that at the same time I seek to control these aspects of them that they cannot themselves control. The evil and good of the mother seeded in them is all I ever want and once I've acquired it, once I know which part they have (for nothing is so black and white as to categorize by gender alone) I don't want anything from them anymore. It seems almost that it explains the reason I never enjoy reaching too deep into any one person. They have neither enough good nor evil to satisfy me, never pure, never complete.
And more than that, I always need more than one of them, it isn't ever just one, always a few at a time so that I can feel full until passover when I realize how boring these people actually are. How uncommitted they are. How selfish and snide; how frugal.
In that I know that I can never be satisfied. That my image of perfection is distant and overbearing and never quite as perfect as it seems. I always find greatness in my own ventures and thoughts of the human I choose to admire for a day, week, month. I know the system of imaginary leading into disappointment, and yet endlessly, I mirror my history in search of difference. Pity me mother, all I want is you.
How foolish.
I admire her, but I'm beginning to worship her. She's becoming my only religion, the only one that makes sense. I suppose that I associate men with spawn, and spawn with evil. They are born evil, born out of mother so that she can be rid of the negativity in herself. In a way, I suppose it's the purpose of childbirth down here as well, it's just that our women aren't so pure. The Mother does not exist strongly enough in any of them for it to assimilate that sort of perfection.
As I was saying though, the mother exists in every girl. No. Every woman. She trades a bit of their evil for a bit of her good and then breeds the evil into men. I think my attraction to men is in that perfect evil as well. My attraction to people is in their necessary spiritual good and evil, their self-righteous sense of being is defined by the feeble lack of control on their part of who they are and what they might be. It's weird the way that at the same time I seek to control these aspects of them that they cannot themselves control. The evil and good of the mother seeded in them is all I ever want and once I've acquired it, once I know which part they have (for nothing is so black and white as to categorize by gender alone) I don't want anything from them anymore. It seems almost that it explains the reason I never enjoy reaching too deep into any one person. They have neither enough good nor evil to satisfy me, never pure, never complete.
And more than that, I always need more than one of them, it isn't ever just one, always a few at a time so that I can feel full until passover when I realize how boring these people actually are. How uncommitted they are. How selfish and snide; how frugal.
In that I know that I can never be satisfied. That my image of perfection is distant and overbearing and never quite as perfect as it seems. I always find greatness in my own ventures and thoughts of the human I choose to admire for a day, week, month. I know the system of imaginary leading into disappointment, and yet endlessly, I mirror my history in search of difference. Pity me mother, all I want is you.
How foolish.
MY STOMACH HURTS.
I really should have eaten real food today instead of just sticking with sugars alone. Perhaps the pasta was a better choice for dinner, but I wasn't hungry enough! Really. I wasn't hungry enough. Tomorrow maybe I'll be hungry enough to pass by and see the world in antiquity.
And there's so much to do. So much to do.
I can feel myself dizzying under the pressure, that I wouldn't care commit myself to a title such as that. I trap myself in my room in the hopes of accomplishing something and otherwise punish myself with hunger when I accomplish nothing.
By definition, it is filthy to want so much control over myself. It is filthy. or I know the better ways to go about living, I know them well, but as I cannot commit myself to title, I cannot reprimand myself for thinking the way I do. I shouldn't eat either. I just wish I had some gum so at least I could keep my mouth active and away from thoughts of digestion.
Oh sweet palette I could ask nothing more of you, I couldn't. And so it takes very few of us to understand the difference between right and wrong, it takes even less to calculate the moment of my end. No difference, right? No less despair than time honoured junkie fashionable creations of ignorance. I want nothing more than to kill something and devour it whole, and since I can't, I control what I can in myself.
Stomach, be ready, when we find that stupid girl we can control, we'll eat like kings.
I really should have eaten real food today instead of just sticking with sugars alone. Perhaps the pasta was a better choice for dinner, but I wasn't hungry enough! Really. I wasn't hungry enough. Tomorrow maybe I'll be hungry enough to pass by and see the world in antiquity.
And there's so much to do. So much to do.
I can feel myself dizzying under the pressure, that I wouldn't care commit myself to a title such as that. I trap myself in my room in the hopes of accomplishing something and otherwise punish myself with hunger when I accomplish nothing.
By definition, it is filthy to want so much control over myself. It is filthy. or I know the better ways to go about living, I know them well, but as I cannot commit myself to title, I cannot reprimand myself for thinking the way I do. I shouldn't eat either. I just wish I had some gum so at least I could keep my mouth active and away from thoughts of digestion.
Oh sweet palette I could ask nothing more of you, I couldn't. And so it takes very few of us to understand the difference between right and wrong, it takes even less to calculate the moment of my end. No difference, right? No less despair than time honoured junkie fashionable creations of ignorance. I want nothing more than to kill something and devour it whole, and since I can't, I control what I can in myself.
Stomach, be ready, when we find that stupid girl we can control, we'll eat like kings.
Aren't you beautiful with your ill-faceted words and acquisition of nothing. I should pity you, I know, because it's all anyone ever says.
Isn't she lovely? They ask. Has it ever occurred to you that they always ask whether or not you beauty is noticeable? Is it actual? Is it there? Not really. You're hardly anything to be quite frank. Hardly anything at all.
Over the moon! Over the moon!
I must be telling lies, for you are the best of them, but how good are they? How excellent could they possibly be?
I'll never date, you know. I won't ever date. I fucking hate everyone, I'll have to settle with something a little less than dating; oh yes, black hair and leather. My sweet loves of current. Fuck food, by the way. Today I've had a hot dog, 300 calories worth of granola bars and tea. For the rest of the night, I'll have nothing and watch movies. I will starve myself as punishment for being so stupid. Do you know that I cannot even write anymore. Do you know? It's impossible to fathom that I didn't know anything about anything until this point. I mean, I don't know anything. I mean, I'm dumb. That's the point, I'm dumb. I don't know what's left except that one.
Conclusively, I am going to shrink in size just to exercise self control. I am going to do it just to prove that I still have that quality.
Fuck,
Brown
Isn't she lovely? They ask. Has it ever occurred to you that they always ask whether or not you beauty is noticeable? Is it actual? Is it there? Not really. You're hardly anything to be quite frank. Hardly anything at all.
Over the moon! Over the moon!
I must be telling lies, for you are the best of them, but how good are they? How excellent could they possibly be?
I'll never date, you know. I won't ever date. I fucking hate everyone, I'll have to settle with something a little less than dating; oh yes, black hair and leather. My sweet loves of current. Fuck food, by the way. Today I've had a hot dog, 300 calories worth of granola bars and tea. For the rest of the night, I'll have nothing and watch movies. I will starve myself as punishment for being so stupid. Do you know that I cannot even write anymore. Do you know? It's impossible to fathom that I didn't know anything about anything until this point. I mean, I don't know anything. I mean, I'm dumb. That's the point, I'm dumb. I don't know what's left except that one.
Conclusively, I am going to shrink in size just to exercise self control. I am going to do it just to prove that I still have that quality.
Fuck,
Brown
