| Where I did bellow
and make to leave
my sleeve had torn
the stripes askew
and spat on course
as fortuna would
I would not
to see my sight
would blind my maker
whom I refuse
and follow suit
to parry greed
so chilled by proxy
though thither warmth
makes undertones
for hinter need
call passion abated
a kinder call
and reside on kind
a hold for truth
in flesh a simple
yet elegant form
belied by beauty
as upstart youth. | comments: Leave a comment   |
| | Subject: | jiko shoukai | | Time: | 06:32 pm |
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| | Just checked my journal for like the first time in months and noticed I had a clandestine watcher, shadows and fog and whatnot. Howdy just_wonderful, make yourself known sometime. And while you're at it, maybe you could solve the big riddle of "who are you?" (Not in a sarcastic tone, more sincere, honest. =)) Either way drop a line when you can. doumo | | comments: 2 comments or Leave a comment |
| | when things get heavy, everyone bails. comfort is something you run from, not deal with. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| especially when that line has grown thin with time and wear.
.... | | comments: Leave a comment |
| Bored on campus.
Type type.
I thought I'd write something poetic or of the such, but I came up with stream of thought drivel.
Nonetheless, its cathartic, I guess.
yup. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| ...and never look back.
There was a girl I knew back once when i was too young to care about philosophy and too old to reminisce about life, and she told me, only slightly before we left on separate paths of life, "If you like someone you should be nicer to them." The same girl, only a short time before tried to kiss me once, and in my inexperience of youth I panicked, not knowing the particular rights and wrongs of doing the liplocking thing, and lost the one chance I'd had to engage in such an experience. Today I saw her again, not for the first time since the long past events that initiated our dialogue, but the first time in quite awhile.
Needless to say I began thinking about the quick passage of this story "my life" and all that occurred between the said past and present, both in me and out, and found myself somewhat speechless.
Today my mom told me when I graduate I could possibly move out to St. Louis where my brother was and start a new life there. I pondered the thought, sucking down all the surprise I could and began rationalizing what this whole "life" thing was about. I smiled, knowing all to well St. Louis could be the escape I've been looking for for oh so long, considering the idea of ditching my past and making a clean start, because my has it become muddled.
I need something new. As I grappled with the idea I ate gobstoppers and chocolate via a nicely decorated table.
I can't help but wonder if throwing everything aside and making a new path is really ever going to make me happy.
To the girl from said acknowledgement, thank you for a lovely party and I'm sorry I couldn't stay longer to reminisce and catchup, but stand assured your kindness and humanity (or human understanding? both?) precipitates and pours from beyond a few spoken words, whether ten years or half an hour ago. The impact of one person on another can be subtle at times, but more surprisingly meaningful than ever at others.
This is one of those "others".
Domo Arigato. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| and i woke up somewhat violently at 5 AM. The dream I was jolted from had every bit of jolt in it, the setting unfamiliar but the story oh so well known. I choked down the dizziness that recoiled from a measure of elation and disappointment, only to truly realize the experience of loss is much greater felt in the line between the surreal and the real.
and no, it wasn't a sex dream. Although in some sense I would of rather had settled for a sex dream, for often the are less emotionally impacting and more somatic, but this dream pulled both the soma and cosmos together in an odd new reality that had me checking myself twice before I was convinced of its end.
The dream itself was nothing more than a discussion, then a single action of bravado, and an all too visceral denouement, one I was unable to perform in the past. The slight tinge of guilt I felt back then, (which of course at such an age is nothing but a torrent of solo drama) left my mind for some time only to be kicked back into the pool of my thoughts a few weeks ago.
Electric.
Visit my webpage | | comments: Leave a comment |
| tired. confused. mixed dreams mixed into daylight, night.
go figure, everythings becoming a swirl of grey. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| and i don't understand it.
or perhaps am addicted to it. Often the correlation is one that can be drawn with a straight line, like misery and company to be cliche, or donuts and milk.
It's one a.m. and i have just eaten. my scattered eating schedule is only one result of my inability to regulate myself into a proper 9-5 agenda. I feel like vomiting, not violently, but silently and poetically, as though it would make a difference. The actor in me needs an audience, the artist in me just wants to be left alone. The philosopher in me tells me to quiet down, my whining is pointless.
I want to be as far away from anything as possible, and yet close enough to return whenever I'm ready.
Amd da da da... I'm guessing I'll be fine with time. Is fulfillment always an arm too far?
. | | comments: 1 comment or Leave a comment |
| Conscious, and a bit self-conscious, i guess.
I want to be more sentimental, but i think it comes in spurts of actions, not in words. Like calling to say goodnight and meaning it, or patting a friend on the back so they can vent years of trouble in an hour.
I hope to be of use and value to the people of this world, whether it be in the smaller human aspect of life (in my opinion the most important) or in the greater societal perspective.
I don't want revenge on a world I failed to understand, as much as I end up doing so.
Sigh. wake up in 3 hours. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| I'm mixed up in a passive identity crisis. The one I know myself to be finds comfort in the solace of an asylum setting. The one I find myself to be feeds on dejection, fear, and despisement. I want to know where the little kid with all the happy thoughts and the desire to see a pretty sunset at its peak went, and where the bloodless moral objectivist came to wear his face.
Dramatic, overdramatic, I tell myself.
I need to write happier thoughts when they come. This whole venting forces a new abuse of the english language.
I keep digging further into my past. For the first few years of college, I wore the nostalgia of high school on my sleeve, reminiscing about a girl I'd idealized and finding myself disappointed at my own inability to cope. Then came the bad relationships, of oh so many a post past, and the rekindling of a new hope.
And now I'm looking back far into junior high and elementary and trying to figure out whether or not I what I imagined to happen actually occurred. Were things ever better than now? Or for that matter, was I ever happier/sadder than this? I hope not, for then I can surpass my expectations and find a new happiness beyond that which I have founded the very definition on.
I don't know, there's so many things I feel like I have to tell, so many explanations to divulge.
I think too much.
And here is not the forum.
Dancing bears with pony tail scarves and Sarah Michelle Gellar in the remake of Ju-on. There, something to lighten the mood. =) | | comments: Leave a comment |
| sustaining frigid and somewhat cool (If i say so in my narcissistic and quippy way) appearances in the hopes that people continue to attribute me the character I never earned, or spill some crazy across the board and hope that a few people pick me up and support the insanity that is my alter ego.
I don't know. I'm becoming obsessive (again) about my own fulfillment.
I'm queueing dreams in no particular order.
Download. | | comments: 1 comment or Leave a comment |
| As I sit idle between watching episodes of scrubs from the past three seasons (season 3 episode 14 by and far the best) I'm beginning to realize the cathartic nature of personal writing. It's always been a puzzle to me how one, writing to his or herself could be content without feedback, response, and/or reward/criticism. Since I don't dig on the Jungian ideas of psychology with respect to my person and refuse to believe expelling the subconscious is like cleaning the septic tank of the mind, I'm still kind of skeptical about the whole deal being "good for me", but I have a newfound respect for those who are driven to be more sane. It's a never ending quest of fighting the little insanities that make up the difference between a sparkling and interesting personality and a psychotic mass murderer, dealing with the bad crazy so the good crazy can be useful. A dual side of the coin equation that only makes for an introvert's schizophrenic Saturday Night.
Yep.
Babble babble, squawk. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| I began tonight wanting to write something that mattered, something that would possibly inspire or retain a sparkle of inspiration that I felt for a moment. Then after torturing myself through a line of a screenplay, a failed attempt at a short story, and a few blank stares at an empty white pallette, I returned to livejournal. It's been almost year, maybe more since I gave this thing up, my digital mute psychologist, but I'm in that place again where I'm wondering why I can't go to sleep and wake up without my subconscious churning and bubbling. In other words, I'm choking on myself, in the least dramatic or sympathy invoking way possible. And the last thing I can do is be inspiring.
These days I feel in a lull, lacking any inspiration, a void that's attempting to suck in some sort of will from the world around me just to remember to eat, or sleep, or poop every day. I don't take risks, I don't take shots, I don't do anything but listlessly watch myself turn around the big circle from 12 to 12. I don't need someone to hop on my back or someone to kick my ass or anything of the sort that one would typically put in here. I just need a kind ear, which is why I guess I'm here, page 1 livejournal.com.
I've been listening to this one song over and over again, Josh Radin's "Winter" and I can't find a connection. I want to believe it's because he's describing an emotion I sympathize with, but once again, I fall flat. The only line I can really find a kindred solace in is the first line "I should know who I am by now". It's sad but once I could say with confidence who I was. Now I can avoid that question with confidence, never facing the consequences of what it means.
Suppress. I'm trying not to whine, the basic reason I left LJ in the first place, I didn't want anyone to hear me whine anymore.
I don't know.
I'm sick. Somewhere in me I'm sick, somewhere not physical. | | comments: Leave a comment |
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