a stain on the palm of the empty handed
this city stinks of those that walk too far to achieve nothing. their tattered hair-dos and pegged jeans, the promises to talk later because the music is just too loud--pretension speaks louder than words. it has become alienating and foreign even as i began to find comfort in my existence. i'm on the cusp of nothing great. i've been devalued and forgotten and it's better this way. no breath for you, i'm keeping it for myself.
the time is unwinding in scribbles of spiral and into the black it goes so quickly. i awoke today and swore it was saturday. i didn't remember it wasn't until the alarm was already turned off. i've created my own mess here, my own little solitude in which small planets revolve around me in an empty atmosphere. i have no feelings and i have no reasons. this story seems to have convoluted itself and as much effort as i put into diluting anything i'm involved in, i just can't shake the fairytale ending that seems inevitably in store. the distance between now and the future is only seconds. keep dreaming--i'm getting older.
i can only hold myself accountable for anything. it's so much easier to blame anything or anyone else when nothing makes you happy, when everything seems vague and unpleasant. as a ghost you're no less lonely. sometimes suicide, well, it's just an idea.
perhaps i came here to avoid an unsettling reality that began to hover above me, to follow me everywhere casting silver shadows down, making it hard to see the truth or to feel anything. i'd recoil and become cold because inside me somewhere it was wrong and it was undesired and it was something i had to escape. i climbed through a window and walked down a street that led no where. too much is figurative and revisiting this leaves me confused.
(i think i've grown to despise my decisions and would like to make a motion to have them struck from the record. people you knew turn into people you no longer like. everyone is motivated by selfishness and instant gratification. no one is genuine or truly enthusiastic about sharing. there aren't enough minutes to fake it forever. it only takes one second. all of you. gone.)
i live amongst fiends and snakes. the walls pound hollow, dying dust insulates between this cube and the next. the terrible sounds await terrible solutions. two gun shots and it's murder/suicide, i'm sure. or just poor aim. erase the number, swallow two of these, it'll be better in the morning. sleep never comes. the lonesome rats gnaw through the cables, nesting inside hollow ventricles, padding the walls with unbleached paper. burning pyres, plumes of smoke, inhaled ecstasy confounds synaptic gaps. wait, she says. you forget to take this. with both eyes burning, watering, solutions disappear. a great mark remains. nothing has been saved. this has meant everything.
to attempt a more literal explanation, something less vague, i'll say this: each day gets better than the one before it. being in love means no distance. and the bells ring out. it'll be forever.
every bit of planning happens in the subconscious. it manifests itself as conscious thought only as impulse. to deny these drives is destroying uncountable hours of effort. nothing isn't on purpose.
if i am not mistaken i have had this account since 2000. august 7th, 2000 (i just looked). this was before the age of proper blogs. before the iphone and the netbook. better than a year before the first ipod was unveiled--a dark age on the dawn of emergent technology. and it documents nothing. perhaps that's the purpose--to create a capsule of meaningless rants and attempts at highly stylized writing that moves no one, does nothing. here's to eight and a half years of extreme pretense, rambling contrivances, and not a word that rings true. livejournal lives.
the time is unwinding in scribbles of spiral and into the black it goes so quickly. i awoke today and swore it was saturday. i didn't remember it wasn't until the alarm was already turned off. i've created my own mess here, my own little solitude in which small planets revolve around me in an empty atmosphere. i have no feelings and i have no reasons. this story seems to have convoluted itself and as much effort as i put into diluting anything i'm involved in, i just can't shake the fairytale ending that seems inevitably in store. the distance between now and the future is only seconds. keep dreaming--i'm getting older.
i can only hold myself accountable for anything. it's so much easier to blame anything or anyone else when nothing makes you happy, when everything seems vague and unpleasant. as a ghost you're no less lonely. sometimes suicide, well, it's just an idea.
perhaps i came here to avoid an unsettling reality that began to hover above me, to follow me everywhere casting silver shadows down, making it hard to see the truth or to feel anything. i'd recoil and become cold because inside me somewhere it was wrong and it was undesired and it was something i had to escape. i climbed through a window and walked down a street that led no where. too much is figurative and revisiting this leaves me confused.
(i think i've grown to despise my decisions and would like to make a motion to have them struck from the record. people you knew turn into people you no longer like. everyone is motivated by selfishness and instant gratification. no one is genuine or truly enthusiastic about sharing. there aren't enough minutes to fake it forever. it only takes one second. all of you. gone.)
i live amongst fiends and snakes. the walls pound hollow, dying dust insulates between this cube and the next. the terrible sounds await terrible solutions. two gun shots and it's murder/suicide, i'm sure. or just poor aim. erase the number, swallow two of these, it'll be better in the morning. sleep never comes. the lonesome rats gnaw through the cables, nesting inside hollow ventricles, padding the walls with unbleached paper. burning pyres, plumes of smoke, inhaled ecstasy confounds synaptic gaps. wait, she says. you forget to take this. with both eyes burning, watering, solutions disappear. a great mark remains. nothing has been saved. this has meant everything.
to attempt a more literal explanation, something less vague, i'll say this: each day gets better than the one before it. being in love means no distance. and the bells ring out. it'll be forever.
every bit of planning happens in the subconscious. it manifests itself as conscious thought only as impulse. to deny these drives is destroying uncountable hours of effort. nothing isn't on purpose.
if i am not mistaken i have had this account since 2000. august 7th, 2000 (i just looked). this was before the age of proper blogs. before the iphone and the netbook. better than a year before the first ipod was unveiled--a dark age on the dawn of emergent technology. and it documents nothing. perhaps that's the purpose--to create a capsule of meaningless rants and attempts at highly stylized writing that moves no one, does nothing. here's to eight and a half years of extreme pretense, rambling contrivances, and not a word that rings true. livejournal lives.