Botpack Nine
If there was ever a time for cohesion, unison, and understanding, it was news to me. The constant fighting, bickering, name calling, and relentless idiocy have me weary. To behold our dreams, but be careful: if the dreams are too real, they are now concrete plans, a potential in a world of instability. I'll toast to that.
Truth be told, I have about seventeen reasons to abandon this post, but honestly it helps. I do tend to feel better after writing something, regardless of the ultimate disposition of the words. The pains tend to ebb and grow with time, I'm not sure what the prognosis might be; the snow keeps falling here. It's nice to hear the sounds of the past, even if it means the future is doomed. Presently, it doesn't bother me.
That was fairly nonsensical and I do not apologize. This is how it's been for a couple of years now, with increasing bouts of confusion, random words spoken, and ill-prepared thoughts. I wouldn't say I've had many moments of clarity, more like windshield wipers in a light rain: you can keep driving just fine, but sooner or later you have to clear the glass. It's such a slow process to obscure the view that you don't really notice it in real time, only the before/after gives you a scale to work from.
To glance around, and to hear it told, you would think that we are nearing the end of the race, that the show is coming to a finale, and the flowers will bloom next year. I'm not sure of that anymore, I think it's more fun and less stress to allow nature to take it's course and keep going until mom says no more. It'll happen, it always does, and everyone comes out of the woodwork screaming about "justice" and "fairness" like those are some sort of universally understood concepts that life works off of.
You know, there's only so much lavender and eucalyptus mint that can fit into a single room. Stress relief my ass. It doesn't help that my chest aches with extended breaths, or my lower back stabs with pain from irregularity. Bitch bitch, whine whine. Who cares, right? Candles and chocolates, cards and chrysanthemums, cribs and caskets. This is the culvert of destiny, the pothole of fate, and the ruts of prophecy.
Four thousand six hundred seventy two things that I would have changed. A macabre fascination with the concept of an audience, a glimmer of hope that the stage is abandoned. When the time comes, I wonder what will flash; a life, a memory, a regret, a hope. It's not my place to say, and by the time it is, the words will not persist through the crumbling infrastructure.
I bet my LA teachers would have a conniption reading this. Incomplete paragraphs, sentence structures that resemble knotted thread, and no clear point or purpose to the paper. I bet I could dress this up and still get at least a 92 on the assignment. A monkey's paw, some floorboards, a red fern, and some mice. It's a strange triple life to lead, isn't it?
It's like a story book. The pages turn whether you're done writing them or not. And when you thumb through the chapters, you wish this or that for the characters, but the author left the words incomplete with no room to even add footnotes or margin scribbles. It's a frustrating read, this book. I'd love to rewrite it, but if you spend too much time trying to revise previous pages, you leave no room for the rest, and so you have to end it early regardless. It's a morose feeling, and I'm not too sure what the correct way is. Could you retcon an entire novel? I've seen it done, and it's quite a shitshow trying to force your narrative on a story arc long since completed. It is a strange life, indeed.
Head nods, chest burns, eyes heavy, and head fuzzy. I'd recommend sleep, for all the temporary reprieve it offers. I've been having a recurring dream, and it's a little concerning if it's foreshadowing or simply subconscious desire. Probably one will lead to the other, it usually does. Tell yourself something often enough and you believe it to the point of making it come true. Everyone is locked out for now, but they're clever fucks. Everyone can see the graffiti, but only a few can read it.
Tracks will...no, I can't. Not yet. Just a while longer, then I can actually sleep. Maybe even sleep in! Won't set any alarms for that, keep the curtains drawn, and just go to town with the catch-up game. Don't tell me you care unless you're prepared to prove it. I accept words, actions, material possessions, and immaterial sensations. The balance is zero right now, will you change that? I see that in my dreams.
Truth be told, I have about seventeen reasons to abandon this post, but honestly it helps. I do tend to feel better after writing something, regardless of the ultimate disposition of the words. The pains tend to ebb and grow with time, I'm not sure what the prognosis might be; the snow keeps falling here. It's nice to hear the sounds of the past, even if it means the future is doomed. Presently, it doesn't bother me.
That was fairly nonsensical and I do not apologize. This is how it's been for a couple of years now, with increasing bouts of confusion, random words spoken, and ill-prepared thoughts. I wouldn't say I've had many moments of clarity, more like windshield wipers in a light rain: you can keep driving just fine, but sooner or later you have to clear the glass. It's such a slow process to obscure the view that you don't really notice it in real time, only the before/after gives you a scale to work from.
To glance around, and to hear it told, you would think that we are nearing the end of the race, that the show is coming to a finale, and the flowers will bloom next year. I'm not sure of that anymore, I think it's more fun and less stress to allow nature to take it's course and keep going until mom says no more. It'll happen, it always does, and everyone comes out of the woodwork screaming about "justice" and "fairness" like those are some sort of universally understood concepts that life works off of.
You know, there's only so much lavender and eucalyptus mint that can fit into a single room. Stress relief my ass. It doesn't help that my chest aches with extended breaths, or my lower back stabs with pain from irregularity. Bitch bitch, whine whine. Who cares, right? Candles and chocolates, cards and chrysanthemums, cribs and caskets. This is the culvert of destiny, the pothole of fate, and the ruts of prophecy.
Four thousand six hundred seventy two things that I would have changed. A macabre fascination with the concept of an audience, a glimmer of hope that the stage is abandoned. When the time comes, I wonder what will flash; a life, a memory, a regret, a hope. It's not my place to say, and by the time it is, the words will not persist through the crumbling infrastructure.
I bet my LA teachers would have a conniption reading this. Incomplete paragraphs, sentence structures that resemble knotted thread, and no clear point or purpose to the paper. I bet I could dress this up and still get at least a 92 on the assignment. A monkey's paw, some floorboards, a red fern, and some mice. It's a strange triple life to lead, isn't it?
It's like a story book. The pages turn whether you're done writing them or not. And when you thumb through the chapters, you wish this or that for the characters, but the author left the words incomplete with no room to even add footnotes or margin scribbles. It's a frustrating read, this book. I'd love to rewrite it, but if you spend too much time trying to revise previous pages, you leave no room for the rest, and so you have to end it early regardless. It's a morose feeling, and I'm not too sure what the correct way is. Could you retcon an entire novel? I've seen it done, and it's quite a shitshow trying to force your narrative on a story arc long since completed. It is a strange life, indeed.
Head nods, chest burns, eyes heavy, and head fuzzy. I'd recommend sleep, for all the temporary reprieve it offers. I've been having a recurring dream, and it's a little concerning if it's foreshadowing or simply subconscious desire. Probably one will lead to the other, it usually does. Tell yourself something often enough and you believe it to the point of making it come true. Everyone is locked out for now, but they're clever fucks. Everyone can see the graffiti, but only a few can read it.
Tracks will...no, I can't. Not yet. Just a while longer, then I can actually sleep. Maybe even sleep in! Won't set any alarms for that, keep the curtains drawn, and just go to town with the catch-up game. Don't tell me you care unless you're prepared to prove it. I accept words, actions, material possessions, and immaterial sensations. The balance is zero right now, will you change that? I see that in my dreams.