(no subject)
October 13
Public places and delirium tremens. The people around me are driving me into this and my insides are already water. They collapse on me like cannon fire. The patterns in the table and the things that they do to me. First there’s all the holes and the metal lacing. It knows my fucking capacity better than the world around me. Then there’s the way that the top comes unseated from the frame and how cold drinks leave beads of water in the hollows. Noise everywhere. I’ve found my muse and she’s miserable and sleep deprived. Their words come jagged from the teeth and tear hieroglyphs into the back of my brain. I’m not even a participant. I don’t even know what’s happening. This capacity gnaws at me, only so much left in this town. I’m realizing that it’s futile, I’m not part of this or anything. Still, I’ll be rich and powerful one day.
Her perfume, the miasma that infects my brain, cuts into the lungs and eats through the skin. Her eyes, too, they’re devouring and teeth, stars. She’s erratic and she must know that I’m trying to kill her. Monumental movements in the sand around my feet. Dying but poetry still.
The small things that keep me going crumble in my fingers. Dust everywhere and I know fear. On the drive home I am regressing and my head swivels around its base. Vision fades in and out and this is not a chemical imbalance. It’s just living today while gravity presses on the soft spots in my head. I move so slowly these days but it’s not the cold calculating movements; it’s the earth tilting on its axis and the noises that you can never escape. Magnetic fields around my eyes, electricity that ripples up the spine. The icy fingertips of god and maybe I’m supposed to be insane. There is suicide in my bloodstream, borne through the breath and shows no mercy. It must be a genetic trait. My favorite poets took themselves and took themselves too seriously. He told me that we are killing ourselves by living to hard and too fast - this wasn’t for me. I exist only for the end, lethargic and broken. There’s only so much time left. Serenity though, sometimes I can feel it everywhere.
20% chance that I kill myself before the age of 25. I call my friends sometimes and tell them that I love them, how great they are. They usually laugh at me like I’m insane and maybe I am. Soon I quit caring. I’m finally beginning to understand the phrase “Stop trying and start doing” not in the sense just be active as I always interpreted it.
New art project. I’m burning cds with writings and music and hiding them in books. Artificial scenarios usually written as letters to a love but no one knows that. Also, I may start adding directions to my favorite places in town from the bookstore. There’s this really beautiful hill where you can go at night and see all of the lights in the city. It’s hard to find if you aren’t paying attention because it’s hidden by giant trees but I found it on accident one night and it must be a quiet place because it terminates in a dead end. I don’t know why but I’ve never told anyone about it. It could be that it’s not a secret at all.
Should I spend time learning to crochet? I have a teacher.
Public places and delirium tremens. The people around me are driving me into this and my insides are already water. They collapse on me like cannon fire. The patterns in the table and the things that they do to me. First there’s all the holes and the metal lacing. It knows my fucking capacity better than the world around me. Then there’s the way that the top comes unseated from the frame and how cold drinks leave beads of water in the hollows. Noise everywhere. I’ve found my muse and she’s miserable and sleep deprived. Their words come jagged from the teeth and tear hieroglyphs into the back of my brain. I’m not even a participant. I don’t even know what’s happening. This capacity gnaws at me, only so much left in this town. I’m realizing that it’s futile, I’m not part of this or anything. Still, I’ll be rich and powerful one day.
Her perfume, the miasma that infects my brain, cuts into the lungs and eats through the skin. Her eyes, too, they’re devouring and teeth, stars. She’s erratic and she must know that I’m trying to kill her. Monumental movements in the sand around my feet. Dying but poetry still.
The small things that keep me going crumble in my fingers. Dust everywhere and I know fear. On the drive home I am regressing and my head swivels around its base. Vision fades in and out and this is not a chemical imbalance. It’s just living today while gravity presses on the soft spots in my head. I move so slowly these days but it’s not the cold calculating movements; it’s the earth tilting on its axis and the noises that you can never escape. Magnetic fields around my eyes, electricity that ripples up the spine. The icy fingertips of god and maybe I’m supposed to be insane. There is suicide in my bloodstream, borne through the breath and shows no mercy. It must be a genetic trait. My favorite poets took themselves and took themselves too seriously. He told me that we are killing ourselves by living to hard and too fast - this wasn’t for me. I exist only for the end, lethargic and broken. There’s only so much time left. Serenity though, sometimes I can feel it everywhere.
20% chance that I kill myself before the age of 25. I call my friends sometimes and tell them that I love them, how great they are. They usually laugh at me like I’m insane and maybe I am. Soon I quit caring. I’m finally beginning to understand the phrase “Stop trying and start doing” not in the sense just be active as I always interpreted it.
New art project. I’m burning cds with writings and music and hiding them in books. Artificial scenarios usually written as letters to a love but no one knows that. Also, I may start adding directions to my favorite places in town from the bookstore. There’s this really beautiful hill where you can go at night and see all of the lights in the city. It’s hard to find if you aren’t paying attention because it’s hidden by giant trees but I found it on accident one night and it must be a quiet place because it terminates in a dead end. I don’t know why but I’ve never told anyone about it. It could be that it’s not a secret at all.
Should I spend time learning to crochet? I have a teacher.