"oh i hope she is beautiful....a beautiful little fool"
"sentimentalism is working off on yourself feelings you haven't really got"
-d.h lawerence
pain. millions of kinds. emotional, physical, made-up, heartbreaking, inconvienent, beautiful, sad. pain fits into our every emotion. a child moves to college, a sad yet happy pain. a man cheats on his wife of 30 years. depressing, overwhelming pain. two idealistic lovers fall apart after falling in love, heartbreaking sobbing on the cold wood floor pain. pain that is inflicted on us, whether we hit on legs on the dresser, bump our heads on the ceiling, fall down from the balance beam. wesley the farm boy in one of my childhood fairytales tell me that life is pain, but life is so breathtakingly stunning. life is that great moment when you walk into a room in your best clothes and that certain boy has a slight intake of breath, life is looking out over the pacific coast feeling so so small and so detached from the others. when we die, everything that we know flashes through our minds. all the random and secret moments the brain chooses to remember...we see one last time. those memories hold pain, in its purest form. i think that pain actually is an emotion, a totally pure emotion that is not tinged or contaimenated like that of anger. i read somewhere that anger is the most untrue of emotions because there is always something else below its surface that what brings out the anger. when i go...i wonder what pain will flash through my mind
leaving my childhood home for the last time
hearing my friend and classmate is dying
feeling my first pet as she lay dead in her cage stiff and cold
finishing that kerouac book wishing it lasted for 500 years
turning down University of Washington
my mother getting skin cancer
falling apart in front of that one boy
picking myself up in front of another
realizing i don't love the ones i tell it to
eighteen years and that is all i've got. i am lucky in many ways, the exquiste pain i have never felt that of true and utter tradgey. but i despise talking about myself, because what is more boring than filling up air with boasts and brags about something i don't know that much about. myself. i'd rather sit there observing than tell the same story over and over to smiles of people trying to cover up the fact that they're not listening.
i don't think anyone really reads this. i am thinking about ending it. it has become so trite.
-m.
-d.h lawerence
pain. millions of kinds. emotional, physical, made-up, heartbreaking, inconvienent, beautiful, sad. pain fits into our every emotion. a child moves to college, a sad yet happy pain. a man cheats on his wife of 30 years. depressing, overwhelming pain. two idealistic lovers fall apart after falling in love, heartbreaking sobbing on the cold wood floor pain. pain that is inflicted on us, whether we hit on legs on the dresser, bump our heads on the ceiling, fall down from the balance beam. wesley the farm boy in one of my childhood fairytales tell me that life is pain, but life is so breathtakingly stunning. life is that great moment when you walk into a room in your best clothes and that certain boy has a slight intake of breath, life is looking out over the pacific coast feeling so so small and so detached from the others. when we die, everything that we know flashes through our minds. all the random and secret moments the brain chooses to remember...we see one last time. those memories hold pain, in its purest form. i think that pain actually is an emotion, a totally pure emotion that is not tinged or contaimenated like that of anger. i read somewhere that anger is the most untrue of emotions because there is always something else below its surface that what brings out the anger. when i go...i wonder what pain will flash through my mind
leaving my childhood home for the last time
hearing my friend and classmate is dying
feeling my first pet as she lay dead in her cage stiff and cold
finishing that kerouac book wishing it lasted for 500 years
turning down University of Washington
my mother getting skin cancer
falling apart in front of that one boy
picking myself up in front of another
realizing i don't love the ones i tell it to
eighteen years and that is all i've got. i am lucky in many ways, the exquiste pain i have never felt that of true and utter tradgey. but i despise talking about myself, because what is more boring than filling up air with boasts and brags about something i don't know that much about. myself. i'd rather sit there observing than tell the same story over and over to smiles of people trying to cover up the fact that they're not listening.
i don't think anyone really reads this. i am thinking about ending it. it has become so trite.
-m.