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[Nov. 9th, 2009|04:21 pm] |
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Where I'm all lost in my mind as if me, I'm not here in presence, physically as faint as a ghost's ghost. Me, I walk around — with my blood coursing through me through my head where it knocks, with air in my lungs coarsely barbing, and the scuff of foot on the ground and the crooking of the back, which is all reminding me that at least I am, which today I need; this day that is just 'a day,' until the next day in which I might feel a bit more constituted — all of this is a regular occurrence and it has to do with work, dread, sex and sleep. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 3rd, 2009|02:57 pm] |
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Everything that is clung. Like filthy goo, a dark oil tar stuck to my skin. If I sit, it pools in my lap. If I stand, it slowly rolls off. I leave a trail wherever I go. I clear my face, when I remember. I run my hands smooth across and fling it off. The eyes are the most important and I can't let them cake over, if I remember. I'm still here, sometimes remembering that comfort is not, is not, is the enemy of contentment. Thinking about that long thick-sand path and how far it goes, must go, how narrow, impossibly narrow and paradoxically broad it is, but, how it has but one direction, behind all directions, how far it goes, that, it could, it could never end, so, I better get walking. When you left the other day, moved away, I didn't allow myself much sadness, though it's there hidden in me somewhere shallow, because it would be unfair to allow my jealousy and selfishness to shake your joy. How giddy you must feel and how fair it was that you didn't boast. I'm so happy for you and so excited to see one of the few I believe to be a peer run and grow, denying, rebelling against the disparagingly obvious philosophical traps, calling them out as flawed. I sincerely wish you the best of luck, I am counting on you, don't ever sit. The goal is to not sit. |
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| Sepulcher |
[Oct. 23rd, 2009|09:45 am] |
It's just that I said, "I'm sorry, but, I don't want to be raped anymore. So. So. So, I'm going to go and turn of the lights in this too crowded little room piled with your heaps of swollen sorrow gone to must." But it wasn't that clear then. I just knew I couldn't look at it ever. That some people have gone off a cliff and though they keep on living and moving and going about and all that they keep falling into that dark place and all their grasping is a risk to you being pulled down as well. Gravity. The trage—or is it—dy, 'cause: you inaction. Or? Can you not be helped, help yourself?..
—So, completely dark, never again, dark and completely gone, I said, "you're dead, dead..." —
...Anyway, it's not a question I care to ask anymore, and I haven't for a long time until it came up again. Think what you want about me, think what you want about me, that's for you, and it's doesn't matter much if it's true.
*
Sadly, universal. |
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| And Time Passes, It Just Passes... |
[Oct. 17th, 2009|08:56 pm] |
I spent about a month creating this and now here it is. It's simple, but to me it symbolizes a success in intention that I'd been struggling with for quite a long time. I'm obsessed with ritual, and the passage of time. How if we were, we were always something. I've also been trying to find a way to transparently convey my culture of computer usage. Screencaper for life. This is simply me, going about about my work; my desktop filling up; as I reexamine what I'd done and done before, the start fades into haze.
I'm so pleased that today is the day I've finished it, for twenty years ago today is my earliest memory that I can pinpoint exactly. October 17th, 2009: my family's house in Menlo Park was essentially destroyed by the buckling of its shoddy foundation, a result of the Loma Prieta earthquake. I was three, watching DuckTales with my Grandparents. The power went out about a second before, and I was upset and opened my voice. Then, the house started moving and all the glass came loose and rained. I needed to save my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Thermos, so I ran to the kitchen where it sat on the counter. But my Grandmother grabbed my by my fleece before I could and I wanted to cry. And we ran, me being carried, through the twisting doorjambs and spray of plaster. After it had stopped, we sat in the car so we could listen to the radio. The implication of this event was huge for my family and so much that happened could have not, had the quake not. With the house gone, we moved across the Dumbarton, and thus began our decline from affluence.
Livejournal 4ever. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 16th, 2009|04:11 pm] |
This song is so much to me right.
I never update here anymore because, like, after talking to others who share similar sentiments, Livejournal was always a pit for the sad, when we were younger, teens who were crazy, naive and alienated, lonely and, I, like most others grew past all that din and don't much want to take another dip, and beside, it was always about the exchange and this place is a bunch of weeds these days. I miss it though. I haunt other locations, and it's not the same. I don't get to know faceless others in the same way and I can't let others get to know me in the way that this place once allowed. It's a shame. I'm not sure I'm ready for it to be buried. |
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