The thought scrapbook. Thoughtbook. Lol
23 or 24 pages of nonsense from one night I spent in a writing frenzy that I need in an electronic copy form.
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Page One:
What if we were all blackholes?
Theories. What if we were all dark, empty, voids? You know...
I'm losing my train of thought.
Word phrases are so dumb, yet everyone understands them--so maybe we (I'm not implying that we're dumb) are somewhat trapped, well not just somewhat--we are trapped. 'Til we can join together and change it--or, we could just change it in our minds.
"How long, how long--will I separate these ties"
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Page Two:
"I would feel bad."
We sometimes say things that hurt other people and something numbs us so that we can't see, or maybe we can see--we just can't feel--their offense, their hurt, their pain. Sometimes it is merely carelessness on our part. Unintentional pain. We've simply become careless with communication. Communication can be a friend--it can be an enemy. At times, when we most need not speak--we do. Creating loud, echoing sound waves that crash into an already confused...
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Page Three:
...stream of word-formed thought mixed with feelings. Emotion. I have such a compelling interest in emotions now.
My notes/pieces of my thoughts.
So--music is powerful, right? Well, why is music so powerful? Tell me. Why? It connects us. Through emotion. Emotion. Emotion. You could be happy...
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Page Four:
"I can't sleep and I can't speak"
As there is no other way to
^where was this sentence fragment leading? It turned into a dead end.
How would I communicate? How? I can't voice my thoughts--my own voice sends noise that interrupts my stream of thoughts.
It would be endless torture. And it would force me to speak. "How long, how long..."
Make the noise stop. Make it go away.
Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey
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Page Five:
Music pushes out our own thinking at times. And then we are only thinking that tune. Sometimes music wasn't meant to have words. And so destruction of thought began.
*Oh for a way to understand. I'm starting out on a journey of my own.
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Page Six:
Vitamins. Funny how I'm not afraid of others reading my naked thoughts. Perhaps it is because I realized that they are all just like me. You are all like me. Don't deny it.
"He wasn't what I wanted what I thought no--He wouldn't even open up the door He never made me feel like I was special He wasn't really what I'm looking for"
"Are you sad? Are you holding yourself? Are you locked in your room? You shouldn't be."
I don't know I don't know Filling the void Shut up--don't tell me God can fill the void--you think you know it--you think you're right. But you're JUST. LIKE. ME. And ideals, and perceptions, and whatever IMPRESSIONS. What does it matter? Happy Tree Friends. :|
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Page Seven:
And if you can tap into the well of your mind... You know how some emotions can get you inside so hard it physically hurts.
Is that such a bad thing? It's how the world is. Change yourself.
ALL. Oh wow.
Hey, here's a thought--not everyone understands the way you think. And the way--the route you seem to be taking...
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Page Eight:
...you speak your opinions persuasively to someone who doesn't understand WHAT THE POINT TO WHAT YOUR SAYING EVEN IS. She can't really hear you right now. Try another approach, dearest. Be a teacher. Are you being a teacher? I thought you were a teacher. She heard something. You were able to connect in a minute way. Is that all?
"He has cool eyes. Hey, my momma loves me." I think that there is a lot of unpleasantness that goes with speaking aloud. At least writing can be altered and...
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Page Nine:
...molded into your communicatory masterpiece. Writing can flow, spoken words can come out, and they can interrupt yourself.
It's sad, he can only think in one mode, huh? But maybe that's not sad.
Spoken words are dangerous.
Writing nonstop exercises the mind in some way, right? Ahh, oh well. I should sleep. Emily Of New Moon...Oh how I wish I could have met her creator, L.M. Montgomerey. I would have just wanted to be in her presence and seeped emotion to and from her.
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Page Ten:
AMEN Esjay Kwiatka What? Why? Don't give me that. "Lalalala--around my head it goes just lalalala--and everybody's singing
Esjaykwiatka
Esjay
It is not such a difficult thing. Do not ask questions outloud of me unless you do not expect ann immediate answer. And do not ask of me too many questions at a time. If you have more than 2--write them down.
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Page Eleven:
I wish I could just keep on writing and writing and never stop but I don't want to keep on writing if it's just going to be nonsense. I want to write things that people can relate with, because if they can't relate, how will they understand? Maybe that's why the Bible has so many different stories. So people can relate to them...and understand? Or want to understand... And prayer... Prayer is interesting. I guess this--if this were destroyed, I would lose a bit of myself. Because, after all, this is me--raw me. Talking--spilling out onto paper. Speaking was more meaningful a long time ago--maybe because it was the easiest form of communication.
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Page Twelve:
Also, take into account that life had to have been slower then. And long hours of manual labor keeps the tongue still and the mind subdued. (Somewhat)
Music. BLOCK. It is a good place to start, I suppose. I miss some of those emotions. And the people with whom I felt those emotions.
She must not have had a lot in her life. To be so happy with two such miserable drawings. They were terrible. And she had me sign them. It was...humbling? No, I don't know and I don't know why. I forget... I've forgotten what it was that I felt.
Right now I feel. But as usual, it's completely indescribable. I wonder if I enjoy dying in it.
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Page Thirteen:
Maybe--to give it words... Despair? No. Loss? No. Void? Hm. Emptiness. Deliciously and hopelessly alone.
Solitude can be so beautiful but then you remember that no one understands you and if by chance they can, you can't possibly understand them in return. Like God. I can't understand God. Maybe He understands me, but to what does that avail if...
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Page Fourteen:
...I can't understand in return. Maybe that's where music comes in. Maybe. More thought in writing is needed. As I have no one else to thank for this simple pleasure amidst my emotional agony, I'll thank God. Thank God for this small release.
Do I answer?
She says I lie to myself a lot. And I lie to her. What does she MEAN? She doesn't understand me. How sad. But then, should I expect her to?
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Page Fifteen:
So if this is really "a spiritual battle," perhaps my road blocks (for Satan) are the multitude of songs in my head--not the music itself, but the music and lyrics combined. Also, I wonder if Jesus ever cried silently at night. Without any of His disciples knowing. It's painful. An agonizing ache (containing the noise of anguish) results. It builds up around behind and throughout the ears. It is possible for me to love Jesus, but I am angry at God. Also, Amy said a lot tonight. I was...
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Page Sixteen:
...actually able to listen to most of it. What if God was trying to speak through her and those parts that I stopped listening to... Well if God is real. If this isn't some trick... And "Post Modernism." I was interested until she started talking about it and I realized she was wrong in her thinking and that she hadn't taken the time to listen to anything--just outrite made the analysis and "BRAINWASHED" statement. And fear. I'm not a scary person, but apparently I am? Oh--wait--it is my life that is scary. Merely because it is empty. But--good is in this yet. Writing. If I thanked God once for letting me...
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Page Seventeen:
...write, I'll thank Him again. Thank God for this. I just realized that when I write that I'm not really writing to God--I'm writing to someone--perhaps a part of myself, and making sure that I used God as my reference for this part of my life. She said she wants to live her life for other people. ... Maybe she is only meant to live for a handful. Because to live for others means an awful lot and I don't know if she is ready or maybe she is and I just can't see it. I'd thought that I'd be done with writing for the night, but I guess I'm (obviously) not. And what--we need. My eyes are drooping of their own accord.
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Page Eighteen:
I think my thoughts have somewhat subsided. But oh there was so much more to say. If only I could remember. But Adam. I was going to mention that--it was bothersome, in any case. He was right, of course--but it still seemed hypocritical of him. Sleep is of the essence. If I may yet again thank God for sleep. Thank--I couldn't write it. I said it in my mind but couldn't write the You. That part of me isn't connected. Also... Speaking of manners. But I wonder if she knows how much I totally, utterly, and completely hated life that one night. That was a deep, deep valley. Gorge.
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Page Nineteen:
Canyon. Pit. Pit sounds alright. Except it has to be something else. A pit isn't usually wide enough to walk through for days, weeks, and months. Also, this thing has potholes and lumps. Even small hills. And an oasis here and there. To believe in God would be beautiful, it would. That is part of what makes my ears hurt from holding it in. I'm so confused and angry. It's overwhelming. And this emotion doesn't quite make sense. Right and wrong. Who decided those, again? I suppose it is easier to believe in God in some ways--but to believe in something else entirely...
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Page Twenty:
...can feel like an utter relief. To believe in neither or nothing. It makes you understand why belief is so important. In fact, you can understand a lot. Tree of the knowledge of good and evil, aye? I am understanding evil. I have yet to fully understand the good. I was dying inside that one night--those poor other people out there so very much worse off. I'd hate for them to think my thoughts. They'd kill themselves. Maybe simply through explosion from inside if not something outwards--though outward death is an awful fear. If that conversation was not a lie--I have a homicide partner. I don't want...
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Page Twenty-One:
...to die. But what is the point in living? "To glorify God," she said. I've been told that before. No one, I repeat, NO ONE understood why I asked, plain and simple, what the point of life was. They became disgustingly concerned. And that was the answer they all gave. The answer they learned from someone else who learned from who knows where. It was a horrifying, unsatisfactory answer then, and it still is to this day.
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Page Twenty-Two:
I've tried to love God. But I failed. I can't be perfect. I hate the fact that You made me, that You made any of us. The flood was a brilliant plan, but then You let us escape. Just a small handful of us. I get the fact that You're lonely (I guess--if You had to stoop down to make US for Your fellowship--You must be some sort of lonely.) I don't get it. You're supposed to be smarter than this. Is God the One who cares so much about us, or is it Jesus? Also, the Holy Spirit is the worshipable part of God and between God's shoulders I'd like to sleep.
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Page Twenty-Three:
And I'd like to walk and laugh with Jesus. And I'd like to be in awe. But. How could you. It doesn't...seem...RIGHT. And where did I get a sense of right from wrong. It was handed down to me from, well, all the way from a tree that YOU made. Oh, yeah. That tree. It's all a hoax, isn't it. Don't do it, please. How can You seem so WRONG when You're supposed to be so RIGHT!?
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Page Twenty-Four:
Goodnight. I'll discuss this with You later. If You're still up to talking. Night.
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Page One:
What if we were all blackholes?
Theories. What if we were all dark, empty, voids? You know...
I'm losing my train of thought.
Word phrases are so dumb, yet everyone understands them--so maybe we (I'm not implying that we're dumb) are somewhat trapped, well not just somewhat--we are trapped. 'Til we can join together and change it--or, we could just change it in our minds.
"How long, how long--will I separate these ties"
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Page Two:
"I would feel bad."
We sometimes say things that hurt other people and something numbs us so that we can't see, or maybe we can see--we just can't feel--their offense, their hurt, their pain. Sometimes it is merely carelessness on our part. Unintentional pain. We've simply become careless with communication. Communication can be a friend--it can be an enemy. At times, when we most need not speak--we do. Creating loud, echoing sound waves that crash into an already confused...
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Page Three:
...stream of word-formed thought mixed with feelings. Emotion. I have such a compelling interest in emotions now.
My notes/pieces of my thoughts.
So--music is powerful, right? Well, why is music so powerful? Tell me. Why? It connects us. Through emotion. Emotion. Emotion. You could be happy...
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Page Four:
"I can't sleep and I can't speak"
As there is no other way to
^where was this sentence fragment leading? It turned into a dead end.
How would I communicate? How? I can't voice my thoughts--my own voice sends noise that interrupts my stream of thoughts.
It would be endless torture. And it would force me to speak. "How long, how long..."
Make the noise stop. Make it go away.
Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Page Five:
Music pushes out our own thinking at times. And then we are only thinking that tune. Sometimes music wasn't meant to have words. And so destruction of thought began.
*Oh for a way to understand. I'm starting out on a journey of my own.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Page Six:
Vitamins. Funny how I'm not afraid of others reading my naked thoughts. Perhaps it is because I realized that they are all just like me. You are all like me. Don't deny it.
"He wasn't what I wanted what I thought no--He wouldn't even open up the door He never made me feel like I was special He wasn't really what I'm looking for"
"Are you sad? Are you holding yourself? Are you locked in your room? You shouldn't be."
I don't know I don't know Filling the void Shut up--don't tell me God can fill the void--you think you know it--you think you're right. But you're JUST. LIKE. ME. And ideals, and perceptions, and whatever IMPRESSIONS. What does it matter? Happy Tree Friends. :|
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Page Seven:
And if you can tap into the well of your mind... You know how some emotions can get you inside so hard it physically hurts.
Is that such a bad thing? It's how the world is. Change yourself.
ALL. Oh wow.
Hey, here's a thought--not everyone understands the way you think. And the way--the route you seem to be taking...
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Page Eight:
...you speak your opinions persuasively to someone who doesn't understand WHAT THE POINT TO WHAT YOUR SAYING EVEN IS. She can't really hear you right now. Try another approach, dearest. Be a teacher. Are you being a teacher? I thought you were a teacher. She heard something. You were able to connect in a minute way. Is that all?
"He has cool eyes. Hey, my momma loves me." I think that there is a lot of unpleasantness that goes with speaking aloud. At least writing can be altered and...
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Page Nine:
...molded into your communicatory masterpiece. Writing can flow, spoken words can come out, and they can interrupt yourself.
It's sad, he can only think in one mode, huh? But maybe that's not sad.
Spoken words are dangerous.
Writing nonstop exercises the mind in some way, right? Ahh, oh well. I should sleep. Emily Of New Moon...Oh how I wish I could have met her creator, L.M. Montgomerey. I would have just wanted to be in her presence and seeped emotion to and from her.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Page Ten:
AMEN Esjay Kwiatka What? Why? Don't give me that. "Lalalala--around my head it goes just lalalala--and everybody's singing
Esjaykwiatka
Esjay
It is not such a difficult thing. Do not ask questions outloud of me unless you do not expect ann immediate answer. And do not ask of me too many questions at a time. If you have more than 2--write them down.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Page Eleven:
I wish I could just keep on writing and writing and never stop but I don't want to keep on writing if it's just going to be nonsense. I want to write things that people can relate with, because if they can't relate, how will they understand? Maybe that's why the Bible has so many different stories. So people can relate to them...and understand? Or want to understand... And prayer... Prayer is interesting. I guess this--if this were destroyed, I would lose a bit of myself. Because, after all, this is me--raw me. Talking--spilling out onto paper. Speaking was more meaningful a long time ago--maybe because it was the easiest form of communication.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Page Twelve:
Also, take into account that life had to have been slower then. And long hours of manual labor keeps the tongue still and the mind subdued. (Somewhat)
Music. BLOCK. It is a good place to start, I suppose. I miss some of those emotions. And the people with whom I felt those emotions.
She must not have had a lot in her life. To be so happy with two such miserable drawings. They were terrible. And she had me sign them. It was...humbling? No, I don't know and I don't know why. I forget... I've forgotten what it was that I felt.
Right now I feel. But as usual, it's completely indescribable. I wonder if I enjoy dying in it.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Page Thirteen:
Maybe--to give it words... Despair? No. Loss? No. Void? Hm. Emptiness. Deliciously and hopelessly alone.
Solitude can be so beautiful but then you remember that no one understands you and if by chance they can, you can't possibly understand them in return. Like God. I can't understand God. Maybe He understands me, but to what does that avail if...
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Page Fourteen:
...I can't understand in return. Maybe that's where music comes in. Maybe. More thought in writing is needed. As I have no one else to thank for this simple pleasure amidst my emotional agony, I'll thank God. Thank God for this small release.
Do I answer?
She says I lie to myself a lot. And I lie to her. What does she MEAN? She doesn't understand me. How sad. But then, should I expect her to?
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Page Fifteen:
So if this is really "a spiritual battle," perhaps my road blocks (for Satan) are the multitude of songs in my head--not the music itself, but the music and lyrics combined. Also, I wonder if Jesus ever cried silently at night. Without any of His disciples knowing. It's painful. An agonizing ache (containing the noise of anguish) results. It builds up around behind and throughout the ears. It is possible for me to love Jesus, but I am angry at God. Also, Amy said a lot tonight. I was...
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Page Sixteen:
...actually able to listen to most of it. What if God was trying to speak through her and those parts that I stopped listening to... Well if God is real. If this isn't some trick... And "Post Modernism." I was interested until she started talking about it and I realized she was wrong in her thinking and that she hadn't taken the time to listen to anything--just outrite made the analysis and "BRAINWASHED" statement. And fear. I'm not a scary person, but apparently I am? Oh--wait--it is my life that is scary. Merely because it is empty. But--good is in this yet. Writing. If I thanked God once for letting me...
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Page Seventeen:
...write, I'll thank Him again. Thank God for this. I just realized that when I write that I'm not really writing to God--I'm writing to someone--perhaps a part of myself, and making sure that I used God as my reference for this part of my life. She said she wants to live her life for other people. ... Maybe she is only meant to live for a handful. Because to live for others means an awful lot and I don't know if she is ready or maybe she is and I just can't see it. I'd thought that I'd be done with writing for the night, but I guess I'm (obviously) not. And what--we need. My eyes are drooping of their own accord.
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Page Eighteen:
I think my thoughts have somewhat subsided. But oh there was so much more to say. If only I could remember. But Adam. I was going to mention that--it was bothersome, in any case. He was right, of course--but it still seemed hypocritical of him. Sleep is of the essence. If I may yet again thank God for sleep. Thank--I couldn't write it. I said it in my mind but couldn't write the You. That part of me isn't connected. Also... Speaking of manners. But I wonder if she knows how much I totally, utterly, and completely hated life that one night. That was a deep, deep valley. Gorge.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Page Nineteen:
Canyon. Pit. Pit sounds alright. Except it has to be something else. A pit isn't usually wide enough to walk through for days, weeks, and months. Also, this thing has potholes and lumps. Even small hills. And an oasis here and there. To believe in God would be beautiful, it would. That is part of what makes my ears hurt from holding it in. I'm so confused and angry. It's overwhelming. And this emotion doesn't quite make sense. Right and wrong. Who decided those, again? I suppose it is easier to believe in God in some ways--but to believe in something else entirely...
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Page Twenty:
...can feel like an utter relief. To believe in neither or nothing. It makes you understand why belief is so important. In fact, you can understand a lot. Tree of the knowledge of good and evil, aye? I am understanding evil. I have yet to fully understand the good. I was dying inside that one night--those poor other people out there so very much worse off. I'd hate for them to think my thoughts. They'd kill themselves. Maybe simply through explosion from inside if not something outwards--though outward death is an awful fear. If that conversation was not a lie--I have a homicide partner. I don't want...
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Page Twenty-One:
...to die. But what is the point in living? "To glorify God," she said. I've been told that before. No one, I repeat, NO ONE understood why I asked, plain and simple, what the point of life was. They became disgustingly concerned. And that was the answer they all gave. The answer they learned from someone else who learned from who knows where. It was a horrifying, unsatisfactory answer then, and it still is to this day.
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Page Twenty-Two:
I've tried to love God. But I failed. I can't be perfect. I hate the fact that You made me, that You made any of us. The flood was a brilliant plan, but then You let us escape. Just a small handful of us. I get the fact that You're lonely (I guess--if You had to stoop down to make US for Your fellowship--You must be some sort of lonely.) I don't get it. You're supposed to be smarter than this. Is God the One who cares so much about us, or is it Jesus? Also, the Holy Spirit is the worshipable part of God and between God's shoulders I'd like to sleep.
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Page Twenty-Three:
And I'd like to walk and laugh with Jesus. And I'd like to be in awe. But. How could you. It doesn't...seem...RIGHT. And where did I get a sense of right from wrong. It was handed down to me from, well, all the way from a tree that YOU made. Oh, yeah. That tree. It's all a hoax, isn't it. Don't do it, please. How can You seem so WRONG when You're supposed to be so RIGHT!?
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Page Twenty-Four:
Goodnight. I'll discuss this with You later. If You're still up to talking. Night.