I am a bland expression vicariously persuant to your own ideas.
I am torn between what is right and proper. conventional and misdirect. sagacity and trifling frivolity. and that which is important to that which is not.
I endeavor to sleep away my existence rather than affix my thoughts to the cumbersome madness that is an eternally evasive solution. I slept 'til 6pm yesterday. 18 hours. since then I've been reading this side of paradise in frenzied consumption with only a mild pause to sleep once more. I'm horribly disconfigured. not quite sure why I exemplify the emotions I do, why I repress others. or what the overall measure of exacting these emotions will ultimately yield.
I cannot hate for I am empty. hatred is an adverse approach to love, a direct progression of loss and lack. I am empty. therefore, I cannot hate. I cannot love. for love is a universal code of ethic instilled in one's psyche from conception and travels a parallel track to hope and faith - two elements of foreign design. my hope for the future is empty. therefore, my ability to love is warped, puerile; lacking the mature steadfastness that is absent in prolonged romanticism.
to all other senses, I am, the same, plagued. all other emotions splayed upon the spectrum of emotional course and discourse are trivial and trite. and to engage and indulge in any and all of them, without the experience of the fraternal emotions, are a trivial and trite pursuit in themselves. all of my expectations are harbored by an emptiness of past and bleakness of present that suggests a compressed vacuity of future.
unabashed felicity, reticient.
consummable rage, waning.
jealousy, porous.
restraint, flammable.
sorrow, indulgent. (sorrow can walk on water but sorrow cannot swim)
pain is to nothing as conviction is to nothing.
there is no point in the feel. feel nothing.
Post Script - I read Cut by patricia mcmillan. (book about an institutionalized cutter who refused to speak. great stuff.) it reminded me of an age, like so many other times, that had escaped my consciousness. there was a point in my life where my vocation of speech was as minimal as permissable. I wouldnt speak; would go for days without hearing the sound of my own voice. I liked those days. and I shall return to them. at least until I figure out the quintessential meaning of life. why we laugh. why we cry. why we fail. why we die. or, at the very least, not so much the "why," moreso the existence and availabilty of these expressions.
these everyday mythologies of planet life.
I endeavor to sleep away my existence rather than affix my thoughts to the cumbersome madness that is an eternally evasive solution. I slept 'til 6pm yesterday. 18 hours. since then I've been reading this side of paradise in frenzied consumption with only a mild pause to sleep once more. I'm horribly disconfigured. not quite sure why I exemplify the emotions I do, why I repress others. or what the overall measure of exacting these emotions will ultimately yield.
I cannot hate for I am empty. hatred is an adverse approach to love, a direct progression of loss and lack. I am empty. therefore, I cannot hate. I cannot love. for love is a universal code of ethic instilled in one's psyche from conception and travels a parallel track to hope and faith - two elements of foreign design. my hope for the future is empty. therefore, my ability to love is warped, puerile; lacking the mature steadfastness that is absent in prolonged romanticism.
to all other senses, I am, the same, plagued. all other emotions splayed upon the spectrum of emotional course and discourse are trivial and trite. and to engage and indulge in any and all of them, without the experience of the fraternal emotions, are a trivial and trite pursuit in themselves. all of my expectations are harbored by an emptiness of past and bleakness of present that suggests a compressed vacuity of future.
unabashed felicity, reticient.
consummable rage, waning.
jealousy, porous.
restraint, flammable.
sorrow, indulgent. (sorrow can walk on water but sorrow cannot swim)
pain is to nothing as conviction is to nothing.
there is no point in the feel. feel nothing.
Post Script - I read Cut by patricia mcmillan. (book about an institutionalized cutter who refused to speak. great stuff.) it reminded me of an age, like so many other times, that had escaped my consciousness. there was a point in my life where my vocation of speech was as minimal as permissable. I wouldnt speak; would go for days without hearing the sound of my own voice. I liked those days. and I shall return to them. at least until I figure out the quintessential meaning of life. why we laugh. why we cry. why we fail. why we die. or, at the very least, not so much the "why," moreso the existence and availabilty of these expressions.
these everyday mythologies of planet life.