(no subject)
what when who how?
your life becomes a collage of crappy quality black and white photographss that you still cling to desperately, even though they document better time, a few months ago when you were happier and confident. when you woke up to phone calls and birds chirping and garbage men jacking off in their gray suits. the garbage men are nonsequitor to this and to everything, but somehow they tie into early morning saturdays and the fact that life and creation cannot be stopped, and even garbage men can promote an orgasm. the pictures don't show this but they document these tiny deeds. they render a portrait, back when you were talented or something, back before you wanted to run away and you didnt say fuck it all, nothing matters. if nothing really mattered you wouldnt hold on to these pictures and you wouldnt feel remorse or regret. you wouldnt have sex and expect to feel serene, or desirable. just to discover the fucking leaves you covered in sweat and horribly alone. is this all you are? one big blog of ongoing rambles that never leave your fingers never make any sense. is this all your are? your creativity squandered and abandoned for normality, your encouragement misguided. you should try encouraging yourself. every time you watch a movie there's some fucked up character, maybe a tranny or whore or teenage hustler, and you just wish with all your tiny beating heart that you were them. that lives could be swapped. that some reason or thing or benevolent god would swoop down and reveal all.
you keep telling yourself its just a phase, like tattered jeans, just a phase.
and you keep talking in dramatic third person to distract yourself, a cat who ties yarn to its own tail. when is this going to end and am i strong enough to see things through. is it really worth it? you think. the more promises you make to come clean and get healthy the more you want to get messed up and treat yourself like shit. like its an option. the more you try to remind yourself of your own value, you feel life slipping by, like banana shit in an angry fist. everythings a simile, a metaphor, a good idea. nothing is assimilated.
and how much longer? how much time?