(no subject)
I'm slowly turing into something like that of a journal entry.
paper thin and brittle. tears when pulled the wrong way, and displaced when turned too much. and scribbly like I've got so much to say but my handwriting won't allow my brain to see things as fast as it would like to.
worn when read too often by eyes that will never understand. coated in brownish fingerprints by hands that will never lend themselves to helping me arrange my scattered thoughts into a neat little puzzle for people to question, and open their thoughts up to the world. so they experience the vulnerability of having their hearts on a slab of dead trees mushed together to make a writing surface. it's so shameful how we sacrifice trees just so we can have a way to empty our brains for the time being. we should save some trees by keeping some things to ourselves. but then I might explode...so maybe we can just try to do a better job in recycling...so we can write on a surface with all the more tree body parts to define my thoughts by the amount of blue, or black, or purple, or green pen ink it can absorb. the freedom of my thoughts depend on the absorption a piece of paper has. there's only so much emotion something can take...especially a flatbrowncrumplytreegraveyardwritingcanvas. that identity in itself is a lot to handle. I'm a piece of paper. cool julie. you have surely achieved a lot throughout your highschool career. a flat piece of tree that lies on the ground...that is walked all over...that absorbes everything that comes in contact ith it at first, but leaves no room for anything useful. like physics. or patience with the airheaded french teacher. or the stoned kid in critique class that tears apart everyone of your pieces of artwork that yo have slaved over and built around that most personal things that you never want to talk about but alas you open your heart to a group of kids who you know you can trust for the most part, but there's always that dick in the corner who loves his car more than his own gender and is just waiting for me to rip off his penis. with my dirty fingernails.
I'm a piece of recycled paper. thank him.
go listen... http://www.theremin-saw.com/sound.htm
paper thin and brittle. tears when pulled the wrong way, and displaced when turned too much. and scribbly like I've got so much to say but my handwriting won't allow my brain to see things as fast as it would like to.
worn when read too often by eyes that will never understand. coated in brownish fingerprints by hands that will never lend themselves to helping me arrange my scattered thoughts into a neat little puzzle for people to question, and open their thoughts up to the world. so they experience the vulnerability of having their hearts on a slab of dead trees mushed together to make a writing surface. it's so shameful how we sacrifice trees just so we can have a way to empty our brains for the time being. we should save some trees by keeping some things to ourselves. but then I might explode...so maybe we can just try to do a better job in recycling...so we can write on a surface with all the more tree body parts to define my thoughts by the amount of blue, or black, or purple, or green pen ink it can absorb. the freedom of my thoughts depend on the absorption a piece of paper has. there's only so much emotion something can take...especially a flatbrowncrumplytreegraveyardwritingcanvas. that identity in itself is a lot to handle. I'm a piece of paper. cool julie. you have surely achieved a lot throughout your highschool career. a flat piece of tree that lies on the ground...that is walked all over...that absorbes everything that comes in contact ith it at first, but leaves no room for anything useful. like physics. or patience with the airheaded french teacher. or the stoned kid in critique class that tears apart everyone of your pieces of artwork that yo have slaved over and built around that most personal things that you never want to talk about but alas you open your heart to a group of kids who you know you can trust for the most part, but there's always that dick in the corner who loves his car more than his own gender and is just waiting for me to rip off his penis. with my dirty fingernails.
I'm a piece of recycled paper. thank him.
go listen... http://www.theremin-saw.com/sound.htm