everyone reads my writing, but...
Would it be better if I was a doctor (MCATs, go!) or a veterinarian (Pigs, fly!): if I had started the band, if I played a mean fucking growling guitar in a band, instead of just liking some and strumming some decent air: would this thing be better, which isn’t anything, just a desire to know things that destroy everything else you know: oh growing! Is there a part of a plant that doesn’t know where every other part of it is and was and will be, and are we different? Yes, I grow from a flatness, and continued incongruities are all crushed into one smooth plane of the “past so it doesn’t matter because I made the wrong decision,” and thus there is no me except the inspectacular right now lanky non-rock and roll, “sorry I don’t know cpr” internet lame-a-zoid. It’s not that I don’t like myself, it’s that I’m not sure what it is that I like so much: something that cares, something that believes, something that shakes to the rock and roll.
Philosophies I’ve developed are as follows:
The wonderful warm wind before it rains, if I could live walking.
The tragedy of no words but tragedy, if I could be willing to learn.
It’s never that big of a deal.
The hole of fits and spatters. That’s where you sit. That’s what I listen to constantly when the dark summer afternoons grow into their god: teenage years and the elements of stupid hungry fun.
On the brightside, I always knew there was a reason I hated that band.
Philosophies I’ve developed are as follows:
The wonderful warm wind before it rains, if I could live walking.
The tragedy of no words but tragedy, if I could be willing to learn.
It’s never that big of a deal.
The hole of fits and spatters. That’s where you sit. That’s what I listen to constantly when the dark summer afternoons grow into their god: teenage years and the elements of stupid hungry fun.
On the brightside, I always knew there was a reason I hated that band.