the politics of starving.
This album is amazing, Against Me! Reinventing Axel Rose. Great lyrics. I listened to it thanks to Brian, which promptly made me realize that I still have a crushing crush on him. This sucks for numerous reasons, mainly the fact that he has a girlfriend. I should be happy for him, and am not, I am jealous instead. This in turn makes me feel like I'm a peice of shit, when in fact, I am human.
But I wish I wasn't.
In my Asian Philosophy class we are reading part of the Bhagavad Gita, the main Indian religious text. It describes this unearthly being that has acheived yogic discipline by dettaching himself from the results of action, something that I have tried to do. It describes the extreme detachment from this world, to pain, pleasure, everything. It describes non thinking, focusing on only one thing, the Existent. I wished so badly in class that I knew how to attain that.
my heart hurts.
My week has kind of sucked, mainly because of the above reason, but its more than that. It's much much more. Its feeling like you aren't really yourself youre just a composite of memories from other people and other people's music tastes and fashion and books and thoughts, my family, and I lost myself somewhere along the way between the subway and reaching the quad. I've been thinking alot about the government, our society, culture, capitalism and anarchy lately. It might have to do with my history class, we are discussing the Americanization of Europe starting with the 1890's until the Cold War period. It's pretty interesting, and I just really really hate American culture, values, and supposed democratic system. Democracy has failed me, and I have no other option.
I want to start a revolution, one in which people will just not participate in the society at hand, they will not consume anything that they don't already have, they will create art and write, work menial jobs that are supposed to deaden you, and will infuse it with a kind of love, to show someone that they will not succumb. To find people, make them tell me their stories, write it down, compile lists of thier memories and life veiws. To be a farmer. To make something and be satisfied. I was telling Anna how I want to work as a mailman, or the guy that takes out the quarters from the meters. She thinks I would die if I didn't use my brain. Maybe I would, but I want to try it, I want to try it all.
I feel like my sense of time is one that makes me feel like i have all the time in the world to think about things, so I push them off and never complete them. I dont want to do that anymore, I want to take the time needed to contemplate what things mean, what they really mean to me, and verbalize them. This alternates with feelings of time running out on me, on my youth, on my day, on how much I waste.
More than anything right now, I wish I was someplace else. I wish I was anywhere, anywhere but here. Anywhere but with my parents, anywhere but on this rediculous street going to a rediculous college that I sometimes feel like is a waste of my time. I want to go someplace in America, somewhere nice with feilds where I can smoke and draw and sing along to this album out loud, scream and have no one hear me, break chairs with metal bats and talk to the natives.
I feel like I have become hollow, hard inside, wanting to talk to people about myself, but can't unless am prompted by a series of in depth questions. I don't understand how there are people that can just open themselves up to strangers, I get, but to friends, I dont get. Because you have to see them the next day, see that they know you're secrets, see that knowledge of you in thier eyes. Speaking of which, Ben called me again, out of the random sky, and opened himself up to me, telling me all of this shit which I no longer care about. I felt like he was trying to win me back to his side of things, for me to tell him that it will all be okay, that she'll have that abortion and he won't be a father. That he'll find money. That he'll be happy. And I didnt care, I was disgusted. This could just be me being rediculously self centered and egotistical. I am the fucking mother confessor. Anyone else want to join in?
I'm reading this really good book, 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Its fucking awesome, I wish I could write like that.
"Cuz baby, im an anarchist, and youre a spineless liberal. We marched together for the eight hour day and held hands in the streets of seatle, but when it came time to throw bricks through that Starbucks window, you left me all alone."
But I wish I wasn't.
In my Asian Philosophy class we are reading part of the Bhagavad Gita, the main Indian religious text. It describes this unearthly being that has acheived yogic discipline by dettaching himself from the results of action, something that I have tried to do. It describes the extreme detachment from this world, to pain, pleasure, everything. It describes non thinking, focusing on only one thing, the Existent. I wished so badly in class that I knew how to attain that.
my heart hurts.
My week has kind of sucked, mainly because of the above reason, but its more than that. It's much much more. Its feeling like you aren't really yourself youre just a composite of memories from other people and other people's music tastes and fashion and books and thoughts, my family, and I lost myself somewhere along the way between the subway and reaching the quad. I've been thinking alot about the government, our society, culture, capitalism and anarchy lately. It might have to do with my history class, we are discussing the Americanization of Europe starting with the 1890's until the Cold War period. It's pretty interesting, and I just really really hate American culture, values, and supposed democratic system. Democracy has failed me, and I have no other option.
I want to start a revolution, one in which people will just not participate in the society at hand, they will not consume anything that they don't already have, they will create art and write, work menial jobs that are supposed to deaden you, and will infuse it with a kind of love, to show someone that they will not succumb. To find people, make them tell me their stories, write it down, compile lists of thier memories and life veiws. To be a farmer. To make something and be satisfied. I was telling Anna how I want to work as a mailman, or the guy that takes out the quarters from the meters. She thinks I would die if I didn't use my brain. Maybe I would, but I want to try it, I want to try it all.
I feel like my sense of time is one that makes me feel like i have all the time in the world to think about things, so I push them off and never complete them. I dont want to do that anymore, I want to take the time needed to contemplate what things mean, what they really mean to me, and verbalize them. This alternates with feelings of time running out on me, on my youth, on my day, on how much I waste.
More than anything right now, I wish I was someplace else. I wish I was anywhere, anywhere but here. Anywhere but with my parents, anywhere but on this rediculous street going to a rediculous college that I sometimes feel like is a waste of my time. I want to go someplace in America, somewhere nice with feilds where I can smoke and draw and sing along to this album out loud, scream and have no one hear me, break chairs with metal bats and talk to the natives.
I feel like I have become hollow, hard inside, wanting to talk to people about myself, but can't unless am prompted by a series of in depth questions. I don't understand how there are people that can just open themselves up to strangers, I get, but to friends, I dont get. Because you have to see them the next day, see that they know you're secrets, see that knowledge of you in thier eyes. Speaking of which, Ben called me again, out of the random sky, and opened himself up to me, telling me all of this shit which I no longer care about. I felt like he was trying to win me back to his side of things, for me to tell him that it will all be okay, that she'll have that abortion and he won't be a father. That he'll find money. That he'll be happy. And I didnt care, I was disgusted. This could just be me being rediculously self centered and egotistical. I am the fucking mother confessor. Anyone else want to join in?
I'm reading this really good book, 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Its fucking awesome, I wish I could write like that.
"Cuz baby, im an anarchist, and youre a spineless liberal. We marched together for the eight hour day and held hands in the streets of seatle, but when it came time to throw bricks through that Starbucks window, you left me all alone."