And A Rock Feels No Pain
Love doesn’t matter. The only thing that will help you is hard work. Love will not carry you. Love, by itself, is weak. Hard work, consistent work is the only thing that will take you where you want to be. Passion without application, without dedication is nothing. Love is nothing. Love does not exist. Holy shit - where has this girl been? Do I ever feel a strong sense of love? I’m always wondering what exactly there is to be in love with? I don’t think anyone can love you just for the fact that you exist. You must do things. When I worked hard, I was loved. Now that I am lazy, I am not.
I hate living here. I hate other people being around. It feels meaningless to be with people all the time and try to have stupid little conversations where I say cute, funny things that people like to hear. If I just could force myself to work hard...
This is how violin makes me feel - ashamed. From the crevice of each f hole leaks a dark shadow of failure that ascends into the air and sings its sweet mocking to my ear. The shadow was conceived by a message from that very ear to my fingers - a nervous patter that grew impatient with modest movement and became a demanding slap - and a still birth was bore whose ghost lingers beneath the shatters of my arm. She rises like a dry, icy vapour to meet pain, like a sleeping snake uncoils to the bellowing of a Bin. My desperate, impotent fingers begging the string to please that very fine, sweet ear - in this, virginity is shed to witness the sacrifice of body to mind.
How devastating the curves of my violin - if I could be wooden and immaculate as she, if in myself, I could resonate perfect intonation.
I can’t help but hate myself.
I hate living here. I hate other people being around. It feels meaningless to be with people all the time and try to have stupid little conversations where I say cute, funny things that people like to hear. If I just could force myself to work hard...
This is how violin makes me feel - ashamed. From the crevice of each f hole leaks a dark shadow of failure that ascends into the air and sings its sweet mocking to my ear. The shadow was conceived by a message from that very ear to my fingers - a nervous patter that grew impatient with modest movement and became a demanding slap - and a still birth was bore whose ghost lingers beneath the shatters of my arm. She rises like a dry, icy vapour to meet pain, like a sleeping snake uncoils to the bellowing of a Bin. My desperate, impotent fingers begging the string to please that very fine, sweet ear - in this, virginity is shed to witness the sacrifice of body to mind.
How devastating the curves of my violin - if I could be wooden and immaculate as she, if in myself, I could resonate perfect intonation.
I can’t help but hate myself.