we all hurt. we all feel pain.
but it lives in some
it dwells in those
who cannot draw away
it seeps
like a slow stain
across our veins
through our clouds and into our stars
puts them out and
burns us sharply
'til we draw away in pain
into ourselves
then it's work is finished
and sated, it moves on
but should we, too, move on
it returns again to feed
and our breathless lifeless souls
know not the light of day
nor the joy of life
and sadly, die.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
I can paint!
Every time i am faced with this page, i lose all motivation. To write, to speak to you, my invisible and perhaps even non-existent audience. Every post, every post i write is like blood drawn from a stone, and even then it is blood drawn from an old stone, one without much life anyway, probably ready to make its way down stream to the dreamy stone afterlife. So all we get is dregs, all you get is lifeless dregs and me, an unending sense of confusion and frustration. this, here, is the first time i have managed to put into words on this blog in a long time, exactly how i feel, and address it to whoever the hell cares. probably no one. check.
i feel the words sitting in me, like dead ducks, useless, smelly, decomposing. once brilliant and shiny, proud and works of God's good hand, now nothing, simply unusable, unloveable. there is no end to the waste in my life, my works. it's all very self centered, somewhat conceited, and you get the feeling that none of these words would come from me in real life, that in real life i am somewhat more modest, though in an ambivalent way and that in real life i would use shorter words, to make sure that not too many people might suspect my deviancy, my oddities, or my fascination with the conjurations of certain words and phrases. you would suspect that my life is a barren place, a kind of wasteland. and then you'd notice how i like to tie everything in, everything, relating back. a nice package, a tightly wrapped way of telling you not very much at all, all the while letting you think that you had some idea, that somewhere in the mess there was meaning and depth and intelligence. well, welcome to fucking happytown, reader. there is no meaning, depth or intelligence here. This here is a whole heap of shit that i dump on you regularly. go figure.
oh it is a good feeling, that one might return from a far away place of systematic self-destruction to the forefront of killing and disserting at you.
i don't know, that fire is going out now. those fast few minutes, just then. i captured something then. i think i might have these moments, but i'm just never near something i can channel or burn it into at the time. i think i like things fast. i am still new to this life thing, even though it rushes by daily, and is really, really loud. i am not sure. i think i like it fast, but maybe i like it slow. i like things to challenge me, but i hate being challenged. i like to be told what to do, but i despise orders. you take your pick, which idiot i am, but first dispose of that sexual innuendo and put away your judgement. there's only so much room for ego, and naturally this being my blog and all, it is mostly mine.
i think i am egotistical, hateful - no, not hateful - and never really sure of whether i am or not. i can't erase things, i can't forget things. i cry over old love, all unrequited, and mourn those not yet within view. i wonder if i will have children, or love, or a fast car. or a pony. then i wonder the superficial things, the imbuitive. like happiness. i wonder why i am waiting for things to fall at my feet, when i am standing under the balcony of the tight-pocketed and the hopeful. nothing much falls here, except tall poppies.
i'm sorry, i'm losing my thread. i'm not grasping much at the moment. it has been 10 minutes since i wrote anything. i'm like an alzheimer, drifting in and out of conscious thought. next minute, i'll be asking who you all are. all none of you. i confuse myself sometimes, with where i'm going. i forget things quickly, remember things i didn't even know happened. it's blurry. i can't remember if i can remember or not. maybe i'm going senile early. maybe this isn't early. maybe senility is proportionate to your capacity as... who knows what. capacity sounded right.
who are you all?
i feel the words sitting in me, like dead ducks, useless, smelly, decomposing. once brilliant and shiny, proud and works of God's good hand, now nothing, simply unusable, unloveable. there is no end to the waste in my life, my works. it's all very self centered, somewhat conceited, and you get the feeling that none of these words would come from me in real life, that in real life i am somewhat more modest, though in an ambivalent way and that in real life i would use shorter words, to make sure that not too many people might suspect my deviancy, my oddities, or my fascination with the conjurations of certain words and phrases. you would suspect that my life is a barren place, a kind of wasteland. and then you'd notice how i like to tie everything in, everything, relating back. a nice package, a tightly wrapped way of telling you not very much at all, all the while letting you think that you had some idea, that somewhere in the mess there was meaning and depth and intelligence. well, welcome to fucking happytown, reader. there is no meaning, depth or intelligence here. This here is a whole heap of shit that i dump on you regularly. go figure.
oh it is a good feeling, that one might return from a far away place of systematic self-destruction to the forefront of killing and disserting at you.
i don't know, that fire is going out now. those fast few minutes, just then. i captured something then. i think i might have these moments, but i'm just never near something i can channel or burn it into at the time. i think i like things fast. i am still new to this life thing, even though it rushes by daily, and is really, really loud. i am not sure. i think i like it fast, but maybe i like it slow. i like things to challenge me, but i hate being challenged. i like to be told what to do, but i despise orders. you take your pick, which idiot i am, but first dispose of that sexual innuendo and put away your judgement. there's only so much room for ego, and naturally this being my blog and all, it is mostly mine.
i think i am egotistical, hateful - no, not hateful - and never really sure of whether i am or not. i can't erase things, i can't forget things. i cry over old love, all unrequited, and mourn those not yet within view. i wonder if i will have children, or love, or a fast car. or a pony. then i wonder the superficial things, the imbuitive. like happiness. i wonder why i am waiting for things to fall at my feet, when i am standing under the balcony of the tight-pocketed and the hopeful. nothing much falls here, except tall poppies.
i'm sorry, i'm losing my thread. i'm not grasping much at the moment. it has been 10 minutes since i wrote anything. i'm like an alzheimer, drifting in and out of conscious thought. next minute, i'll be asking who you all are. all none of you. i confuse myself sometimes, with where i'm going. i forget things quickly, remember things i didn't even know happened. it's blurry. i can't remember if i can remember or not. maybe i'm going senile early. maybe this isn't early. maybe senility is proportionate to your capacity as... who knows what. capacity sounded right.
who are you all?
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