(no subject)
Freedom is to listen to a single song on repeat, enduring a single passion for countless exits like a monk under a waterfall. To feel a single thing, a single belief, for hours, not as a transient experience but a mode of life, when the world cannot condone such depth of feeling, with ardor for single notes that permeate your breath and you wish you could know the words so you could sing this one line that makes the rest of the world seem mundane and tired and slow. It feels like everyone else's problems are not your own, that the world has failed you and now you must leave it behind for higher planes of life where lofty ideas like transcendence seem just beyond the curtain and maybe gravity won't mind you for a moment and dreams are pulled out of us with tongs.
Nothing I write here is what I think. I just write what I feel. If the conscious mind were applied to this endeavor, I would realize the fruitlessness of my words, the unimportances and assumptions I make for myself. I would tear down the letters and there world be nothing but whiteness. No, this what what I feel, before the conscious mind is applied, for I never felt in sounds or pictures or people. Only in words. Words that come out of the darkness like headbeams across the yellow line in the night. They fly by and I see them onces and never think of them again. And here, I can only hope to catch the subtle feelings that move through me like quiet veins. I hear myself in my ear, saying things that I wish I could read.
I can't read. I can't stand it. Because other people make messes of words, saying things that aren't their's.
I just want, maybe, to cook some hashed browns. Tell me if I deserve to live. An absurd concept.
Nothing I write here is what I think. I just write what I feel. If the conscious mind were applied to this endeavor, I would realize the fruitlessness of my words, the unimportances and assumptions I make for myself. I would tear down the letters and there world be nothing but whiteness. No, this what what I feel, before the conscious mind is applied, for I never felt in sounds or pictures or people. Only in words. Words that come out of the darkness like headbeams across the yellow line in the night. They fly by and I see them onces and never think of them again. And here, I can only hope to catch the subtle feelings that move through me like quiet veins. I hear myself in my ear, saying things that I wish I could read.
I can't read. I can't stand it. Because other people make messes of words, saying things that aren't their's.
I just want, maybe, to cook some hashed browns. Tell me if I deserve to live. An absurd concept.