(no subject)
something is wrong with me.
okay, okayokayokay. i'm gushing blood and i'm not dying which might have something to do with it.
but aside from that i just... i just can't care right now. i can't read. i can't finish books. i've been creeping around livejournal off and on for a few days now and if i get hooked, it's only for a moment. it's only for the first few lines. except twice i actually finished the entry that was written. both of those people were so aloof and strange and empty and young feeling. why them? maybe they reminded me of my younger selves when i was still new. but i don't write like them.
i can't read and i can't write. this thing that i've written, it's trash. everything i read is trash. everything is garbage, even when i know it's not. it still feels that way. don't hate me for it, baby.
back to the bell jar- she wrote that she couldn't read anymore. the letters danced and jigjagged on the pages and escaped all comprehensibility, it was just impossible to get through a sentence. i'm not that bad yet, but i'm feeling it. i can't pay attention long enough. nothing is interesting- i just want to be surprised. i want to be wowed.
vicious cycles. i've been here before but it was different, because that was then and this is now. now the letters are just starting to dance, and i just... i'm so fucking impatient. i just want to eat up entire paragraphs all at once and digest whatever it has to tell me all in one gulp. back then i was more patient, i read more. i'm reading less and less, what does that mean? am i getting dumber? no, it'll pass. it's just a temporary inflation of the entropy and desensitization that all of us fall victim to.
i'm bleeding inbetween my legs and there's absolutely nothing we can do about it. this is life, we just learn to deal with it. plug it up with cotton and let it get sopping red, take it out and replace it with new white cotton. do it all over again.
my problem is, i can't stand myself anymore. my problem is, what i really want to do is write about other people but i keep myself from doing it. i always have. and it's made me a dishonest person.
this feels like dejavu. writing about other people is dangerous. i'm going to do it, i've decided. i will write stories again.
okay, okayokayokay. i'm gushing blood and i'm not dying which might have something to do with it.
but aside from that i just... i just can't care right now. i can't read. i can't finish books. i've been creeping around livejournal off and on for a few days now and if i get hooked, it's only for a moment. it's only for the first few lines. except twice i actually finished the entry that was written. both of those people were so aloof and strange and empty and young feeling. why them? maybe they reminded me of my younger selves when i was still new. but i don't write like them.
i can't read and i can't write. this thing that i've written, it's trash. everything i read is trash. everything is garbage, even when i know it's not. it still feels that way. don't hate me for it, baby.
back to the bell jar- she wrote that she couldn't read anymore. the letters danced and jigjagged on the pages and escaped all comprehensibility, it was just impossible to get through a sentence. i'm not that bad yet, but i'm feeling it. i can't pay attention long enough. nothing is interesting- i just want to be surprised. i want to be wowed.
vicious cycles. i've been here before but it was different, because that was then and this is now. now the letters are just starting to dance, and i just... i'm so fucking impatient. i just want to eat up entire paragraphs all at once and digest whatever it has to tell me all in one gulp. back then i was more patient, i read more. i'm reading less and less, what does that mean? am i getting dumber? no, it'll pass. it's just a temporary inflation of the entropy and desensitization that all of us fall victim to.
i'm bleeding inbetween my legs and there's absolutely nothing we can do about it. this is life, we just learn to deal with it. plug it up with cotton and let it get sopping red, take it out and replace it with new white cotton. do it all over again.
my problem is, i can't stand myself anymore. my problem is, what i really want to do is write about other people but i keep myself from doing it. i always have. and it's made me a dishonest person.
this feels like dejavu. writing about other people is dangerous. i'm going to do it, i've decided. i will write stories again.