(no subject)
Phew.
Spent two rounds worth of Hanson's "Underneath" cleaning up my room.
I am such a hoarder. Everything was so dusty, icky.
There were so many notes, so many letters just lying around in odd places. I dumped them into the two shoeboxes.
There was the really long letter and several notes that I think I will re-read later.
So many unsent letters/rantings. I don't remember writing them, everything seems so long ago.
I don't see how people can bear burning letters.
"they say letters written in the heat of the moment are the expression of a profound truth, that one should accept them, as they come but rarely."
But I suppose not all letters are like that, and burning them makes it like they never existed, like the memories never existed.
Closure, I suppose.
Today felt particularly dull.
Wound, mutilate, wound you. Repeated over and over.
Choose. Choose the lesser of the few two evils.
Tired of being on the heights, I, you?, deliberately went to the depths in the search for new sensation.
I try to recapture the flavour of a faraway time; you know, that subtle flavour which never fades, which accompanies us always, in silence, in secret, and which we find inadvertently as we turn a corner, in the sweep of a glance, in the murmuring of a forest where once we played many years before. It is an exquisite sadness.
I'm going C.R.A.Z.Y.
Relief; just three weeks more. Just three. Just.
Spent two rounds worth of Hanson's "Underneath" cleaning up my room.
I am such a hoarder. Everything was so dusty, icky.
There were so many notes, so many letters just lying around in odd places. I dumped them into the two shoeboxes.
There was the really long letter and several notes that I think I will re-read later.
So many unsent letters/rantings. I don't remember writing them, everything seems so long ago.
I don't see how people can bear burning letters.
"they say letters written in the heat of the moment are the expression of a profound truth, that one should accept them, as they come but rarely."
But I suppose not all letters are like that, and burning them makes it like they never existed, like the memories never existed.
Closure, I suppose.
Today felt particularly dull.
Wound, mutilate, wound you. Repeated over and over.
Choose. Choose the lesser of the few two evils.
Tired of being on the heights, I, you?, deliberately went to the depths in the search for new sensation.
I try to recapture the flavour of a faraway time; you know, that subtle flavour which never fades, which accompanies us always, in silence, in secret, and which we find inadvertently as we turn a corner, in the sweep of a glance, in the murmuring of a forest where once we played many years before. It is an exquisite sadness.
I'm going C.R.A.Z.Y.
Relief; just three weeks more. Just three. Just.