(no subject)
It's funny (funny weird not funny haha) to think that the people who had such a huge impact on your life will one day cut their ties to you and eventually forget you within a matter of years. I wonder how that happens... I suppose that one just thinks of that person less and less until ones memory is blurry than a poorly taken photograph.
I wonder who I have impacted in either a negative or positive light. Have I made a difference in this world? When I die will I be able to feel comforted by how I lived and who I touched? At this juncture I don't think I would. I am constantly regarding myself as some sort of self-imposed untouchable. I pushed myself with my political and religious beliefs to the outer brinks of society, unable to make connections with anyone other than others like me.
I constantly preach about apathy and how it is the downfall of us all, yet I can't seem to feel a damn thing anymore. Something horrid happens and I just shut off the television or navigate away from the webpage that held the news of twenty three deaths of my peers in a urban day landscape. How did I become so dead towards the world, I am not even concerned with the matters affecting my own life. I suppose that's why I fought so hard, because I knew I was going to fail but I wanted to experience something, even if it was painful.
My mind is not so chaotic as much as it is a blank canvass with no painter willing to take the task of covering it. I find emotion in film and music, though not in sidewalk conversations or blurry memories. I even tore up those photographs and didn't feel the slightest bit guilty. How is a writer supposed to write without a catalyst. Am I able to write convincingly about my lack of feeling?
I keep forgetting to eat, because I keep trying to remember things, people, places, and I fail miserably. I don't even remember what you look like, but I haven't forgotten your touch, isn't that odd? Perhaps it isn't, maybe an image is more easily forgotten, but a feeling can always be recalled until it begins to crumple like the paper you wrote all those letters on, and for some reason I kept.
Was this fate foreseeable? How did I become the narrator of my own work of fiction? He was cold and unfeeling, yet he found a catalyst. I am seeing connections between what I wrote ages ago and what I am living now. I don't think of anyone, unless they are right there in front of me or I am dreaming.
Last night, though, last night I have the oddest of encounters. It actually started at Emo's, and worked it's way to my apartment soon after. We stayed up all night talking and cuddling and occasionally kissing. It felt right, I felt something. Her name is Annie, and she could be what I need right now. She was really forward and gave me her number. She was drunk, I was stoned. I said yes, she said I didn't have to call her if I didn't want to. I promised I did. Last night, I did, and I am so pleased that I did.
Maybe there is hope for me yet... Maybe, but for now I need to get rid of all these torn pieces of paper, charred and unrecognizable. Symbolic of your future memory of me.
END TRANSMISSION
I wonder who I have impacted in either a negative or positive light. Have I made a difference in this world? When I die will I be able to feel comforted by how I lived and who I touched? At this juncture I don't think I would. I am constantly regarding myself as some sort of self-imposed untouchable. I pushed myself with my political and religious beliefs to the outer brinks of society, unable to make connections with anyone other than others like me.
I constantly preach about apathy and how it is the downfall of us all, yet I can't seem to feel a damn thing anymore. Something horrid happens and I just shut off the television or navigate away from the webpage that held the news of twenty three deaths of my peers in a urban day landscape. How did I become so dead towards the world, I am not even concerned with the matters affecting my own life. I suppose that's why I fought so hard, because I knew I was going to fail but I wanted to experience something, even if it was painful.
My mind is not so chaotic as much as it is a blank canvass with no painter willing to take the task of covering it. I find emotion in film and music, though not in sidewalk conversations or blurry memories. I even tore up those photographs and didn't feel the slightest bit guilty. How is a writer supposed to write without a catalyst. Am I able to write convincingly about my lack of feeling?
I keep forgetting to eat, because I keep trying to remember things, people, places, and I fail miserably. I don't even remember what you look like, but I haven't forgotten your touch, isn't that odd? Perhaps it isn't, maybe an image is more easily forgotten, but a feeling can always be recalled until it begins to crumple like the paper you wrote all those letters on, and for some reason I kept.
Was this fate foreseeable? How did I become the narrator of my own work of fiction? He was cold and unfeeling, yet he found a catalyst. I am seeing connections between what I wrote ages ago and what I am living now. I don't think of anyone, unless they are right there in front of me or I am dreaming.
Last night, though, last night I have the oddest of encounters. It actually started at Emo's, and worked it's way to my apartment soon after. We stayed up all night talking and cuddling and occasionally kissing. It felt right, I felt something. Her name is Annie, and she could be what I need right now. She was really forward and gave me her number. She was drunk, I was stoned. I said yes, she said I didn't have to call her if I didn't want to. I promised I did. Last night, I did, and I am so pleased that I did.
Maybe there is hope for me yet... Maybe, but for now I need to get rid of all these torn pieces of paper, charred and unrecognizable. Symbolic of your future memory of me.
END TRANSMISSION