Suicide Note
I won't be able to recover from what I've done to this journal over the past few months. I've completely decimated any cinder of purpose it was originally built on. I don't like it, it's crowd control, it's beyond the aesthete, it's underneath old tree trunks and over snow covered hills. It's inbetween hands, and floating through lips pressed together. It's unimaginable tribute to you, me, and the sole-survivor of universal purging, holocaustal suicide. There was sex, blood, violence, rock and roll. There were skulls and cross bones, death threats, impolite litanies, e-blackmail. There was information about me. Well, now you won't have it. It isn't what anyone did, particularly. It was so fast, so heavy in hand, true to laughter and the unexpected, that it dwindled and became nothing. Understanding produced the function of it all in insane metamorphosis. Trains ran through one ear and out the other. I fulfilled my stapling desires, my licking of telephone poles and obvious errors in judgment. There was no spelling, no grammar, no idea.
Produced out of this void was happiness, grogginess, late nights, repeated extinctions. There were new friends, old friends, turtle friends, tragic friends. There was communication between blogsites. There are still secret journals no one will see. No one will know. There are black airs upon satellite mirrors, penetrating the flesh of covered identity. Incorruptible, like terrible dark clouds at night. But I don't think I can hold it up any longer, in the fashion I want, in the way I want to be documented, as a living person. To save life from "forget". When we were on the bed without clothes and balloons floated to the top of the gym - we wondered if they could ever be extracted. We bathed in sin. There was trouble. There was fake religion. And I love you.
Trouble is that art never suffices to the individual. And what speaks to us through lenses of the incomplete, unsaturated and creeping is not lucid. When the canvas is bits in a file, and the database holds what arts we thought we held - we cease art and become success. I imagine that I would have lived if I had changed majors. If I had grown up to be stupid and without wit, yet transformed into some eastern jewel of charm and fascism. If I were Korean or half-Turkish. If I were Norweigan or born in Shanghai. Not Ann Arbor, Michigan. Not bane, or immaculate conception.
I still hold with me certain memories I should have recounted here. A frolic through a park with friends. Thai food with someone close. Cemeteries and waterfalls. Continued obsessions with Scandinavia. My utter insecurity at my own logical capacity. There are things that will never be written here, not for some sake of brevity in holiness, but for truth and mischief and unabashed criticism of what you have done and where you have done it. Well, truth is, we were without clothes and it wasn't either of our beds.
It wasn't a decision based on an event. No moment I believed that this had to exist. I am attached to this like I am attached to 5573 - through fingers of doubt, and love, and caring. I could stay here and pretend that this will last forever, which I'm sure it could, with nothing useful in its corpus. When you're crazy, this is the sort of thing you think about. It's not art. It's not public venture. It's not dreamless sleep.
It's important, though, that it wasn't our bed. So I want you to know I'm sorry to have trashed you. To have become some art towards the hatred of myself. To have posted what seems to be the last of my insanity. So put your clothes back on and regain consciousness.
And find yourself swimming in my vision.
Travelling to memories that will be deleted from a massive database - where hundreds mean thousands.
I am ending this journal.
A really nice guy that will probably still be your friend,
Kashif Syed
P.S. - I'm unravelled.
Produced out of this void was happiness, grogginess, late nights, repeated extinctions. There were new friends, old friends, turtle friends, tragic friends. There was communication between blogsites. There are still secret journals no one will see. No one will know. There are black airs upon satellite mirrors, penetrating the flesh of covered identity. Incorruptible, like terrible dark clouds at night. But I don't think I can hold it up any longer, in the fashion I want, in the way I want to be documented, as a living person. To save life from "forget". When we were on the bed without clothes and balloons floated to the top of the gym - we wondered if they could ever be extracted. We bathed in sin. There was trouble. There was fake religion. And I love you.
Trouble is that art never suffices to the individual. And what speaks to us through lenses of the incomplete, unsaturated and creeping is not lucid. When the canvas is bits in a file, and the database holds what arts we thought we held - we cease art and become success. I imagine that I would have lived if I had changed majors. If I had grown up to be stupid and without wit, yet transformed into some eastern jewel of charm and fascism. If I were Korean or half-Turkish. If I were Norweigan or born in Shanghai. Not Ann Arbor, Michigan. Not bane, or immaculate conception.
I still hold with me certain memories I should have recounted here. A frolic through a park with friends. Thai food with someone close. Cemeteries and waterfalls. Continued obsessions with Scandinavia. My utter insecurity at my own logical capacity. There are things that will never be written here, not for some sake of brevity in holiness, but for truth and mischief and unabashed criticism of what you have done and where you have done it. Well, truth is, we were without clothes and it wasn't either of our beds.
It wasn't a decision based on an event. No moment I believed that this had to exist. I am attached to this like I am attached to 5573 - through fingers of doubt, and love, and caring. I could stay here and pretend that this will last forever, which I'm sure it could, with nothing useful in its corpus. When you're crazy, this is the sort of thing you think about. It's not art. It's not public venture. It's not dreamless sleep.
It's important, though, that it wasn't our bed. So I want you to know I'm sorry to have trashed you. To have become some art towards the hatred of myself. To have posted what seems to be the last of my insanity. So put your clothes back on and regain consciousness.
And find yourself swimming in my vision.
Travelling to memories that will be deleted from a massive database - where hundreds mean thousands.
I am ending this journal.
A really nice guy that will probably still be your friend,
Kashif Syed
P.S. - I'm unravelled.