Saturday, 8 May 2010
Listen.
I've learned to be quiet these days, to keep the words to myself. What I lack in speech I make up for in listening. The world is too loud to shut it out, it needs to be heard.
Also, I really have nothing to say anymore. Here, and there, sometimes, the need to speak arises. Also, the need to smile. I smile when necessary, speak when the time warrants it, and express when the situation requires it.
Abov e all, I continue to listen. And learn. I've become a mindless child again, and from this womb of solitude and dark, musty rooms with moldy, moth-eaten books, this dark room where evening sunlight eternally seeps through old, cracking yellowed blinds, I will listen and learn, and shut the hell up.
I cannot figure out why sometimes when I rest and close my eyes and empty my mind, I start to panic. Nonsense comes at me at a million miles per second, the raw pulp-filled mess left untamed and unrecognised in my subconscious. But it doesn't make sense as a whole. My heart beats quickly, breathing turns difficult, non-existent commercials play in my thoughts, music and words and psychobabble and beautiful nonsense. But there is a tranquility here, one so....pleasurable, that I can't stand it, can't let myself be this relaxed and conent, so I don't allow it to course through me.
In other news, I haven't studied for my exams. I doubt I will fail, but I really don't care anymore. I don't say this out of angst, but neutrally, merely reporting the facts. I have no more dreams, nothing to compel me to chase after anything. It may sound sad, but I'm not sad about it. I'm a simple man with a mind only God can figure out, and I feel I should be doing something, but I simply want to relax. I'll work for the rest of my life, play video games, perhaps get married maybe not, drink a little here and there, watch the world slowly destroy itself and continue to enjoy and despise my own company.
Right now, such a simple course doens't sound so bad. I neither sad nor angry or anything icky or bad or 'ew'. I just am.
I bought my mother a rose. White.
I also picked up candy for my family.
Got a mother's day card.
Some girl likes me at work but I don't know why. What in me (at work) can possibly be desirable? My kindness is like the water running in the pipes beneath your feet - quiet and unnoticed except by those who are down in the dumps enough to be underground. Most people don't see it, so it can't be that love and kindness that she sees. I don't know. Romance is stupid. And so am I.
Also, I really have nothing to say anymore. Here, and there, sometimes, the need to speak arises. Also, the need to smile. I smile when necessary, speak when the time warrants it, and express when the situation requires it.
Abov e all, I continue to listen. And learn. I've become a mindless child again, and from this womb of solitude and dark, musty rooms with moldy, moth-eaten books, this dark room where evening sunlight eternally seeps through old, cracking yellowed blinds, I will listen and learn, and shut the hell up.
I cannot figure out why sometimes when I rest and close my eyes and empty my mind, I start to panic. Nonsense comes at me at a million miles per second, the raw pulp-filled mess left untamed and unrecognised in my subconscious. But it doesn't make sense as a whole. My heart beats quickly, breathing turns difficult, non-existent commercials play in my thoughts, music and words and psychobabble and beautiful nonsense. But there is a tranquility here, one so....pleasurable, that I can't stand it, can't let myself be this relaxed and conent, so I don't allow it to course through me.
In other news, I haven't studied for my exams. I doubt I will fail, but I really don't care anymore. I don't say this out of angst, but neutrally, merely reporting the facts. I have no more dreams, nothing to compel me to chase after anything. It may sound sad, but I'm not sad about it. I'm a simple man with a mind only God can figure out, and I feel I should be doing something, but I simply want to relax. I'll work for the rest of my life, play video games, perhaps get married maybe not, drink a little here and there, watch the world slowly destroy itself and continue to enjoy and despise my own company.
Right now, such a simple course doens't sound so bad. I neither sad nor angry or anything icky or bad or 'ew'. I just am.
I bought my mother a rose. White.
I also picked up candy for my family.
Got a mother's day card.
Some girl likes me at work but I don't know why. What in me (at work) can possibly be desirable? My kindness is like the water running in the pipes beneath your feet - quiet and unnoticed except by those who are down in the dumps enough to be underground. Most people don't see it, so it can't be that love and kindness that she sees. I don't know. Romance is stupid. And so am I.
Monday, 3 May 2010
Tonight.
Come marked for slaughter and prepared for failure. In this crowd of faceless, twisting, stinking bodies, babbling on and on, you inhale the whiskey and the smoke and the sweat and the crass body oils, resting pitifully in the fact that never expecting success lessens the sting of failure. You walk the path of the defeatist, footsteps sliding across the rainbow-coloured glowing squares, brushing past the denizens of a world you cannot understand and cannot understand you.
High heels, lip stick, perfume, nail polish, crass Axe Cologne, vanity, superficiality, loud music; yet you see, hear, and feel absolutely nothing. You'd like to snatch the mirth from their faces and erase those laughs in the air, but as usual, your impotence leaves you with nothing but the choice to take it.
Order another drink, pass the fuck out, and try to forget the time that you wasted last night.
Then you smoke 'cause everyone else is doing it, and you don't give a fuck, and you get that urge to destroy yourself again. And maybe through the veil of smoke, someone will see.
They don't. You're the life of the party, a badass motherfucker who no one really knows or really will. And it's all for the best, 'cause they'd lynch you when they found out what's lurking beneath.
High heels, lip stick, perfume, nail polish, crass Axe Cologne, vanity, superficiality, loud music; yet you see, hear, and feel absolutely nothing. You'd like to snatch the mirth from their faces and erase those laughs in the air, but as usual, your impotence leaves you with nothing but the choice to take it.
Order another drink, pass the fuck out, and try to forget the time that you wasted last night.
Then you smoke 'cause everyone else is doing it, and you don't give a fuck, and you get that urge to destroy yourself again. And maybe through the veil of smoke, someone will see.
They don't. You're the life of the party, a badass motherfucker who no one really knows or really will. And it's all for the best, 'cause they'd lynch you when they found out what's lurking beneath.
Saturday, 1 May 2010
.Six
Liars. Liars. Liars.
They all lie. We all lie. We lie in bed, with all our lies, lying next to each other.
Pale, anemic bodies quiver and squirm amidst each other, white maggots corrupting a dying truth.
Veritas Morti. Veritas Morti.
Silk, velvet lips, dripping smoke and sin. Listen. Do not touch. Do not move. Listen. Strike when ready.
When in the shadows, they strike you in the back. They whisper:
MURDER
BETRAYAL
MURDER
BETRAYAL
Crimson fountains from their throats. A smile carved in there neck, vermillion lips dripping with blood.
Veritas Morti. Veritas Morti.
They all lie. We all lie. We lie in bed, with all our lies, lying next to each other.
Pale, anemic bodies quiver and squirm amidst each other, white maggots corrupting a dying truth.
Veritas Morti. Veritas Morti.
Silk, velvet lips, dripping smoke and sin. Listen. Do not touch. Do not move. Listen. Strike when ready.
When in the shadows, they strike you in the back. They whisper:
MURDER
BETRAYAL
MURDER
BETRAYAL
Crimson fountains from their throats. A smile carved in there neck, vermillion lips dripping with blood.
Veritas Morti. Veritas Morti.