(no subject)
it is so nugatory to be at this screen right now, at this isolated fluroescent spot in an otherwise chilly shadow of a nighttime:reality. because there is only thing i want to give right now, and that is this mood. i want to give you this mood, this sense of existence i currently inhabit, but i can't. because i cant accurately even describe it. it's so delicate, like burnt glass, and it would easily crush like spun sugar to a toddler's sneaker, and it will be gone before i know it and i won't have even saved a semblance of it upon this page. the present i inhabit...it's so...ISOLATED. from your present and from my future. i'll toss adjectives at the page but it wont do a damn bit of good, later reading it when anxious or tired or fatalistic or nauseous or godknowwhat.
a warm black hooded sweatshirt against bare arms, an eyesight full of spots and blurry and glow through glasses still spotted with tears from their songs, echoes of angelic voices bouncing across my mental backdrop. a consciousness poised in comfort, pushing off responsibility and clinging to the lingering of the near-past: bright lights and ringing ears in a converted gothic church filled with my favorite songs by my favorite band, with the hypnotic stare that i affected for about an hour, a leer that traced and retraced the muscles of his thighs under blue jeans, the particular shape of his shoes as he danced with his guitar, the layering of the feedback, the numbness i felt with legs all curled up peeking out over the crowd tucked in a niche in the balcony, and the curious expression of a girl on the opposite balcony mouthing the words along with me ("cause nothing hurts like nothing at all, when imagination takes full control; i saw the scene unfold...")
i need discipline. i need to conduct research in a competitive manner, to devote hours to poring over the stilted speech of prideful academics in tiny, poorly xeroxed print. to take notes that are actually legible, to later somehow synthesis massive amounts of data from disparate sources and come up with something revolutionary, something presentable at an academic conference. THIS IS WHAT IS EXPECTED OF ME. i need to come to class prepared: material read and absorbed and appreciated, attention riveted on the lecture, neat notes taken in nice columns, easily studied later. i need organization. i need to want to learn as badly as i want to breathe or i might as well be a migrant worker for the rest of my short life for all it will matter. i think of these things that i need to do, and i feel excited, inspired, i feel frightened, unworthy. i know i am capable. i know i'll never even get started never mind complete anything i could show to another respected human without flushing scarlet. i am brilliant. i am barely conscious. i am polished. i am a neophyte. i am cocksure and well-prepped. i am windblown and rushed. i am FUCKING CONFUSED. i should go write my paper. i should go study for my test. i shouldn't have to tell myself these things. what the fuck have i become. where the fuck is the girl who knew how to SUCEED at life. i'm scared again, scared enough to think about driving south for the next 16 hours and never looking back rather than turn off this stupid, meaningless box of text and write a SIMPLE fucking four-page paper. that tiny paper becomes a monolith in my mind, an immutable boulder, and i am fucking frightened of it, of anything. i'd rather roam the early streets like a zombie or a hobo. i'd rather do anything to avoid simple responsibility. isaifjpw ofp=po mz';l sao[ . help. and look. what i mean. my mood, the mood i started with so safe and comforted atop the page, is already waxing distraught. wtf and das ende.
a warm black hooded sweatshirt against bare arms, an eyesight full of spots and blurry and glow through glasses still spotted with tears from their songs, echoes of angelic voices bouncing across my mental backdrop. a consciousness poised in comfort, pushing off responsibility and clinging to the lingering of the near-past: bright lights and ringing ears in a converted gothic church filled with my favorite songs by my favorite band, with the hypnotic stare that i affected for about an hour, a leer that traced and retraced the muscles of his thighs under blue jeans, the particular shape of his shoes as he danced with his guitar, the layering of the feedback, the numbness i felt with legs all curled up peeking out over the crowd tucked in a niche in the balcony, and the curious expression of a girl on the opposite balcony mouthing the words along with me ("cause nothing hurts like nothing at all, when imagination takes full control; i saw the scene unfold...")
i need discipline. i need to conduct research in a competitive manner, to devote hours to poring over the stilted speech of prideful academics in tiny, poorly xeroxed print. to take notes that are actually legible, to later somehow synthesis massive amounts of data from disparate sources and come up with something revolutionary, something presentable at an academic conference. THIS IS WHAT IS EXPECTED OF ME. i need to come to class prepared: material read and absorbed and appreciated, attention riveted on the lecture, neat notes taken in nice columns, easily studied later. i need organization. i need to want to learn as badly as i want to breathe or i might as well be a migrant worker for the rest of my short life for all it will matter. i think of these things that i need to do, and i feel excited, inspired, i feel frightened, unworthy. i know i am capable. i know i'll never even get started never mind complete anything i could show to another respected human without flushing scarlet. i am brilliant. i am barely conscious. i am polished. i am a neophyte. i am cocksure and well-prepped. i am windblown and rushed. i am FUCKING CONFUSED. i should go write my paper. i should go study for my test. i shouldn't have to tell myself these things. what the fuck have i become. where the fuck is the girl who knew how to SUCEED at life. i'm scared again, scared enough to think about driving south for the next 16 hours and never looking back rather than turn off this stupid, meaningless box of text and write a SIMPLE fucking four-page paper. that tiny paper becomes a monolith in my mind, an immutable boulder, and i am fucking frightened of it, of anything. i'd rather roam the early streets like a zombie or a hobo. i'd rather do anything to avoid simple responsibility. isaifjpw ofp=po mz';l sao[ . help. and look. what i mean. my mood, the mood i started with so safe and comforted atop the page, is already waxing distraught. wtf and das ende.