Disguise the realities with poverty and sexuality
Well as some of you may know, I have been in a cabin alone for a few days to think and take care of dogs. Here is
I purposely keep myself naive and away from earthly information because it is the only way to avoid a jaded attitude. Everything I do is internally subconscious because you cannot rationalize fate (or life for that matter) I can think, but I cannot speak. I can only seem to feel with no way to express what I feel due to a poor use of language. I don't have the time nor energy to translate what I feel into a form of understandable conversation, but I am going to try right now. It seems I can only communicate with animalistic grunts, tones and instinctual hand gestures along with swift eye movements. I am deaf in spirit, because it never learned to communicate linguistically. I don’t plan on learning how to either, I will communicate through myself, my thoughts, my emotions, my actions. The line between artistic expression and my reality is nonexistent. With every hand crafted swap meet burlap sack covered in macaroni and glitter is a part of that artist’s being. Maybe an idea of theirs, or a memory. I am attracted to the word memory and what it stands for, for no explanational reason. Much like my fascination with dreams I suppose. People often are confused by art. Art is 100% expression, and the freedom to have that expression. Art can be anything. A song, a movie, a book, a painting, a sculpture, a ripped shirt, anything. If it has had meaning and thought put into it, it has become art. A journal could be art. No one ever talks about this kind of stuff. For why I do not know. It is irrelevant or unimportant to them. No wonder I can never strike up a good conversation. I wish someone could explain this anomaly to me. It kind of sucks that I chose to write in here, when I would be better off transcribing it to a 3-subject Mead spiral and conceal it within the depths of my closet. This is no insult to the reader. Someone out there is reading this, and that’s all I can do. I am not a very prolific person, so when my creativity flows, it flows for days, or weeks even. Or I could have an extreme drought of emotion and thought, so no matter what I think, I can at least try to convert it to our universal code of language. What do I have to say? So much it is surreal. A lot of frustration, angst, nihilistic attitudes, questions of love and lack there of. I came to many valuable conclusions while in my cabin of solitude. I realized that another person couldn’t possibly make me happy if I am not myself happy first. You cannot rely on others to fix your own personal qualms. I can’t just go around expecting to find a person (female of course) that can return my emotions and thoughts, not a one that could just talk to me and vice versa for hours about anything and nothing all at the same time. Never has a girl shown interest in me in the least. Which I can live with, for now at least, it just really bothers me. I am guessing that in life we have to cope with ourselves before we get the privilege of finding somebody else. I guess I haven’t been on trial long enough, which is okay. Someday I suppose, when I least expect it. It grows over time. I also decided that I am a fucking downer. I need to do something about that.
My mind is nothing but a dream, and I couldn’t be more content. Don’t feel bad for not reading this. I wrote it with the thought of no one reading it. I probably explained myself wrong once again anyway, which is okay.
This is to be taken seriously.
This is not to be ignored.
This is not to be considered an opinion.
It should be considered as art.
Just read it all or don't even bother.
We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun.
___
I hope one of my friends contacts me soon, I am bored and have no idea what the hell is going on with them. Plus school starts in a few days.
P.S. Happy New Year.
I purposely keep myself naive and away from earthly information because it is the only way to avoid a jaded attitude. Everything I do is internally subconscious because you cannot rationalize fate (or life for that matter) I can think, but I cannot speak. I can only seem to feel with no way to express what I feel due to a poor use of language. I don't have the time nor energy to translate what I feel into a form of understandable conversation, but I am going to try right now. It seems I can only communicate with animalistic grunts, tones and instinctual hand gestures along with swift eye movements. I am deaf in spirit, because it never learned to communicate linguistically. I don’t plan on learning how to either, I will communicate through myself, my thoughts, my emotions, my actions. The line between artistic expression and my reality is nonexistent. With every hand crafted swap meet burlap sack covered in macaroni and glitter is a part of that artist’s being. Maybe an idea of theirs, or a memory. I am attracted to the word memory and what it stands for, for no explanational reason. Much like my fascination with dreams I suppose. People often are confused by art. Art is 100% expression, and the freedom to have that expression. Art can be anything. A song, a movie, a book, a painting, a sculpture, a ripped shirt, anything. If it has had meaning and thought put into it, it has become art. A journal could be art. No one ever talks about this kind of stuff. For why I do not know. It is irrelevant or unimportant to them. No wonder I can never strike up a good conversation. I wish someone could explain this anomaly to me. It kind of sucks that I chose to write in here, when I would be better off transcribing it to a 3-subject Mead spiral and conceal it within the depths of my closet. This is no insult to the reader. Someone out there is reading this, and that’s all I can do. I am not a very prolific person, so when my creativity flows, it flows for days, or weeks even. Or I could have an extreme drought of emotion and thought, so no matter what I think, I can at least try to convert it to our universal code of language. What do I have to say? So much it is surreal. A lot of frustration, angst, nihilistic attitudes, questions of love and lack there of. I came to many valuable conclusions while in my cabin of solitude. I realized that another person couldn’t possibly make me happy if I am not myself happy first. You cannot rely on others to fix your own personal qualms. I can’t just go around expecting to find a person (female of course) that can return my emotions and thoughts, not a one that could just talk to me and vice versa for hours about anything and nothing all at the same time. Never has a girl shown interest in me in the least. Which I can live with, for now at least, it just really bothers me. I am guessing that in life we have to cope with ourselves before we get the privilege of finding somebody else. I guess I haven’t been on trial long enough, which is okay. Someday I suppose, when I least expect it. It grows over time. I also decided that I am a fucking downer. I need to do something about that.
My mind is nothing but a dream, and I couldn’t be more content. Don’t feel bad for not reading this. I wrote it with the thought of no one reading it. I probably explained myself wrong once again anyway, which is okay.
This is to be taken seriously.
This is not to be ignored.
This is not to be considered an opinion.
It should be considered as art.
Just read it all or don't even bother.
We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun.
___
I hope one of my friends contacts me soon, I am bored and have no idea what the hell is going on with them. Plus school starts in a few days.
P.S. Happy New Year.