| Writing Exercise |
[06 Jan 2009|02:47am] |
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mood |
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normal |
] |
| [ |
music |
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death cab for cutie - cath... |
] |
I like this song. It is difficult to explain why. Since it was introduced to me, I have followed it along its winding melodies and over the drum rolls and attempted to see that far destination where all of its efforts lead. I have enjoyed many songs. It has become necessary for me since I was young to listen constantly, as if silence were blindness and as if, instead of my own strength, I have drawn upon the pulsations inherent in music.
I spend my nights beside a tiny lamp, typing words slowly, pondering clauses as I listen to a melancholic song. Other nights I have spent for idle amusements meant to distract me from the inevitability of living. Every night, however, is spent alone and beholden to the desire to live that keeps me awake. And I sit here, living under this song as if it were the clean rain whose soft coldness is too brief.
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| To Stave the Ventricles of The Heart |
[20 Dec 2008|01:18am] |
| [ |
mood |
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forstalling |
] |
| [ |
music |
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beck - lost cause |
] |
I sat and looked out the window at the snow drifting. The snow fell so slowly, quietly, like the sound of time passing. I sat, amazed and absorbed, watching something happen.
I wake up and the snow makes the light fill my room with light that is less blue and more pure than it would be on warmer days. I lie in bed, aware of only this.
I pee quickly as if I have somewhere I desperately want to be. Afterward, I climb onto the couch and stare blankly at my desktop background. This fills the hour: peeing and blank staring.
I haven't showered in days. I pick the dandruff out from under my fingernails. It makes it so I can't even enjoy plunging my face into my pillows. I brushed my teeth because I couldn't stand the taste of scum on my teeth anymore.
At night, I sit on my bed, among the unmade blankets. I feel discontent. I want to talk to someone. I wish I were somewhere. I wonder how anyone could go to sleep like this.
I wander through the house without my glasses. It feels comfortable, although everything is blurry. I know the last step of the stairs. I get myself a cup of water and I ignore the brown ring of coffee stain. I don't think it matters. I drink deeply for this is the first water I've had all day. I drink deeply for reason I don't quite understand. Am I sane?
I am in love with a girl. I go to sleep, clutching a dream of her.
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| Do You Like My Havering? |
[23 Nov 2008|01:39am] |
| [ |
mood |
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coughing |
] |
| [ |
music |
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iron and wine - communion cups and someone's coat |
] |
I never get anything done as I make time for people who want things from me. It's not that I hate people. I don't like people. I never meant to think anything of people. I imagine my apathy would disgust any other person and instead of trying to reconcile myself with society, I just avoid people who assume that I want anything of them. This is why strangers are such great companions. I hate the artifice of conversation that occurs when people see my ugly mug. I behold a person in regard to the words they are capable of. I look at them and wonder if they would ever say, of their own volition, anything profound. That is what I want. The words that break the commonplace.
I feel ugly. My face is not even average. It is strange and rare in its subtle deformity. My lips protrude and effect disgust. My eyes have circles under them. The roundness of my face makes me seem incompetent. I have always wanted to be liked. It was never within me to like myself. I wanted consolation from others. Therein is happiness. With acceptance of my entire being is the end of my weary struggle. Because I just wanted to be loved and cared little for the world further. Is my simplicity so vapid?
I don't know why I write things down. I feel that these words should be recorded. I enjoy reading the things I have written. There is a tranquility inherent in profound reflection. The effect of the true extraction of our subjective states is the sublime. These words are the kind that carry me through the late strains of the soul, when we stay awake and try to remember what we are living for, what we wished to have accomplished at the end of the day before we go to sleep, the end of the night without the satisfaction of having gained anything. This is how time haunts me.
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[21 Oct 2008|01:27am] |
"As I have tried to show, modern writing at its worst does not consist in picking out words for the sake of their meaning and inventing images in order to make the meaning clearer. It consists in gumming together long strips of words which have already been set in order by someone else, and making the results presentable by sheer humbug."
I realize that the reason why I cannot write stories is because I care nothing for people. Only for words. People do not interest me. Their eccentricities and dysfunctions mean nothing. But words together hold something more important than most people could hope to be.
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[11 Oct 2008|01:00am] |
Freedom is to listen to a single song on repeat, enduring a single passion for countless exits like a monk under a waterfall. To feel a single thing, a single belief, for hours, not as a transient experience but a mode of life, when the world cannot condone such depth of feeling, with ardor for single notes that permeate your breath and you wish you could know the words so you could sing this one line that makes the rest of the world seem mundane and tired and slow. It feels like everyone else's problems are not your own, that the world has failed you and now you must leave it behind for higher planes of life where lofty ideas like transcendence seem just beyond the curtain and maybe gravity won't mind you for a moment and dreams are pulled out of us with tongs.
Nothing I write here is what I think. I just write what I feel. If the conscious mind were applied to this endeavor, I would realize the fruitlessness of my words, the unimportances and assumptions I make for myself. I would tear down the letters and there world be nothing but whiteness. No, this what what I feel, before the conscious mind is applied, for I never felt in sounds or pictures or people. Only in words. Words that come out of the darkness like headbeams across the yellow line in the night. They fly by and I see them onces and never think of them again. And here, I can only hope to catch the subtle feelings that move through me like quiet veins. I hear myself in my ear, saying things that I wish I could read.
I can't read. I can't stand it. Because other people make messes of words, saying things that aren't their's.
I just want, maybe, to cook some hashed browns. Tell me if I deserve to live. An absurd concept.
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[05 Oct 2008|02:58pm] |
"Let me tell you this: if you meet a loner, no matter what they tell you, it's not because they enjoy solitude. It's because they have tried to blend into the world before, and people continue to disappoint them."
-Jodi Picoult
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| I Like Ginger Ale |
[21 Sep 2008|05:57am] |
| [ |
mood |
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in a bad place |
] |
| [ |
music |
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the album leaf - six am |
] |
I want to spill my heart onto something. There are times when everything is meaningless and unimportant but this is not those times. I feel tired, not because I have done too much, but because I have done nothing. My desk is bare. I've put everything away. It feels like I have no dreams.
I will ask my parents for their help. I do not want to play games any longer. I want to read something, anything. But I know that if I try, I will sink back into abject frustration at the inability of other people to find something utterly true. I just hate words now. No one says anything important. But it only feels this way because when I really try, I cease to care about life. I can only do things in the periphery, without meaning to, as if I could only paint in dreams.
I feel really lonely. I just want someone. It is so early, but I have no one to eat with. I eat large portions alone. I eat at odd hours and without celebration. But really, there is no food in the world that I can imagine enjoying right now. Just because I have eaten so much, and without joy. All I want is water onto eternity.
In my dreamless state, the world is disconnected. None of our actions lead to anything because it is impossible for two people to meet randomly for the sake of each other. People don't want that. People don't know what they want. I don't know why I am still sitting here. When I wake up later, what will I do? How long until I have to eat again? When will I accomplish something? Do I have anything in me?
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[16 Sep 2008|04:45am] |
| [ |
mood |
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she sang a short tune |
] |
| [ |
music |
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minus the bear - this ain't a surfin movie |
] |
I like these nights the most. When the air is cold and chills everything and I am the sole endower of heat, adulterating the harsh coolness of the pillows. It's just me and my trusty keyboard, ensconced in a cold world, a cold morning, blanketed with abstracted desire.
I like how the breeze makes my hair cold. I like how the breeze drowns the music, this one song that is playing over and over again. It brings this cold that permeates everything. I breathe it in.
I don't know what to make of life. I am here, breathing in cool air like it has never been breathed before, like the spirit that leaves the windshields frosted in its wake. Time has melted and shattered and I stand on the edge of this floe, with so few choices, just waiting. I will get better at twiddling my thumbs.
Anyways, what I mean to say is that I won a PS3 at PAX and I have been playing Tales of Vesperia nonstop for the past two weeks. I miss Vera and wish that Ruu thought more of me. I don't want to play any other video games. I just want to whisper the words to this song in the dark, as if to be heard is to be loved. "...As if the words knew I'd need them again, but at the time I couldn't see it."
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| Warm Nights and the Chill |
[02 Sep 2008|02:44am] |
| [ |
mood |
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vesperia |
] |
| [ |
music |
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lightspeed champion - midnight surprise |
] |
What do you feel? I feel tired. Always tired. I feel ashamed that someone as ugly as me can be allowed to say anything important, to say anything profound. It feels like I'm lying. Like only beautiful people should make beautiful words. And my fingers don't move as fast as the words in my mind. My fingers stumble and mix up the letters and pause as the next phrase comes down the line. If I look at myself in the mirror, I realize that if I ever met myself I wouldn't like myself. I would never be able to talk to anyone who looked like me for all the junk food and video games and life wasted that is engraved on my face. That is why I look for strangers. People who don't know me. Because I can just give them my words and be who I am regardless of the years of neglect and foolish decisions. That is why, at times, I wish I didn't have a past. I could just be what I want to be if it weren't for my past. There's just so much waste, so much nothingness that always matters in the most annoying moments.
I'm such a kid. I don't even realize when I get too excited for something. And then I ruin my friendships, impose myself on people, forget to respect anything, and when I do something completely stupid, I always feel something that I would call regret. But the regret that I have known in my life has always been negligible and far away. This is more than that. The ineffaceable desire to not have done anything at all with my entire life. As if to not exist would make things a little better.
I don't even know what I'm doing with my life. It's degraded to the point where I just want to play video games. I don't even know what I'm going to do. I don't even have so many things to say. I used to feel such passion for saying things, about finding things to say, about finding people who want to listen. But I say such abstract things and I am so ugly that for those two reasons I can't say anything to people who are right in front of me. I wish I could just be words.
I mean, where am I? I feel lost. I can't answer myself when all my life I've always just been able to say what I feel. I feel like mysterious things are pushing me. The desire to belong. The desire to be loved. To be something worthy of love. To avoid God. To sleep. To evade life and steal away moments where the sun hits everything at oblique angles and the molecules of the earth are laden with potential. To sit and stare and watch the places where no one goes like the ocean and the sky and the lonely patches of grass and mountain and sand. I feel like I want help. I want some strange girl to appear and tell me about life. I want her to break and fold reality into something true again, to wring out the illusions and be beautiful for me. Someone to believe in because I feel pathetic right now. Which is truly a pathetic reason to want someone.
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| And Maybe Drafting Tape Will Be Useful |
[14 Aug 2008|04:58am] |
| [ |
mood |
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sleepy |
] |
| [ |
music |
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bob dylan - mr. tambourine man |
] |
One day, when I am older, when I have studied, when the day comes that I have grown up, I will visit all the people I don't know but talk to. I will travel and live modestly and spend hours and hours on the road, talking to people on my cell phone, listening to songs hundreds of times over, and eating wherever seems convenient and true.
Such I imagine is why I keep trying to remember people, like I have a list, that maybe all these random people might mean something eventually. That maybe I will feel like I belong somewhere for a while before I move on. I will live off post office boxes and foreign couches.
I will sing loudly, with the strength that comes from practice.
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| Read It Now |
[08 Aug 2008|01:57am] |
| [ |
mood |
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craggly |
] |
| [ |
music |
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iron and wine - lion's mane |
] |
I think that I am sick of people. Maybe I have had enough of human interaction to last me a while. I don't know how to tell. Maybe tomorrow I will still be satisfied. Maybe tomorrow I will be lonely.
I don't want to listen to songs that exacerbate the monotony of life, that embody the tired efforts of our bodies and try to make us persevere. I want songs to take me out of life, like strings tied to my limbs, as if veins and arteries choke the heart with its own being. Life should remove us from life. I want to fall out of life into my own realms for a while and not talk to anyone so I can focus on things that really matter to me.
I think the reason why I want to be with you is because I want someone to know how I feel when I listen to songs and drive long, empty roads. I hear songs and it feels like life is moving beside me, outside the windows. And I want you to know what I feel like as if I were never understood by anyone and you were my only hope to be real for one moment. To be known.
I will just work and sleep and read and write letters to you. I slip into these moments, I don't know how, that I consume too much of life and I regurgitate all these words. I hate my words like you hate your pictures. I don't think I'm any good for anyone but I look back and I feel like I accomplished something that could last and dwell in people. It feels different to read what I've written; days later I stare at my own words and consume myself without self-consciousness.
If you have been paying attention, you will realize that most of my sentences start with "I". I want songs that make my heart feel lighter so I can sleep. Because sometimes the rest of your body is so heavy that, if only you could feel something, you could collapse in on yourself and meet the oblivion of everything that bothered you.
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| A Long Time |
[07 Aug 2008|03:37am] |
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mood |
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more to add |
] |
| [ |
music |
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grizzly bear - blackcurrant jam |
] |
I don't really know anything. Throughout my life, I've just come up with makeshift replacements for common sense. I have no idea how to treat another person. You can watch sesame street for years and not know what to say to a girl. The only way I ever understood anyone was through the things that I wanted for myself. To see if they want it too. To share those things with other people. I don't have anything to say to anything else.
I mean, I don't really do anything amazing. I just amuse myself and make time go faster like everyone else does instinctively. I do what is easiest and that impetus makes me feel like I won't accomplish anything in my life. I just eat soft foods and sleep with the window open and the fan on during the hot days and pet my dog and fall asleep without anything to look forward to.
I don't even want anything sometimes. I don't know what the difference is between falling asleep alone and falling asleep next to someone. I feel so fat when I eat too much and I feel ugly when I look in the mirror. But I know this is mostly because I don't take care of myself. I only do what is easiest so I drink a lot of water and don't move much.
I come up with stupid things. It's what we all do. Things to form the days around like a skeleton for the flesh. What I want is to fly the same kind of kite I flew when I was a kid on the beach, surrounded by people, with no end to the sun and countless useless hours. Today, I want to lie in the grass and watch my kite sway in the sky. I want to ignore my repulsion of sands and grass and the outside ground. I want to be surrounded by something natural because I haven't for years. I want to hold your hand.
I don't like eating. If I could, I would eat only a bit of burnt bacon and steamed rice for dinner. I would sleep instead of eating. But I end up being awake at odd hours and eating whatever I can microwave. This is not what makes life tragic. What is tragic is being sad for no reason.
Of course I like talking about myself. It's all I ever really think about. It's what the words come out of. Things I need and want and things that bother me and things I want to share. I don't really need to share things. I really just need to say them to someone who can understand that I just have to say things.
I guess I can go to sleep now.
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| Watching the Credits of The Science of Sleep |
[01 Jul 2008|01:33am] |
| [ |
mood |
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alone |
] |
| [ |
music |
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andrew bird - simple x |
] |
I imagine myself sitting on the edge of my bathtub, with the water ankle deep and warm, and I am reading a thick book with no pictures in it. My bathroom has beige colors in it, the only exception is the old, aged, forgotten, pitiful leaves of the potpourri. There is no window, only beige walls and tiles and a single beige door in the tiny, coffin-like room. And I read for myself and I kick my toes in the water gently. There is no sun or world to behold me. I am alone, leaning against the cold shower tiles as I sit and read and wet my toes.
( The reoccurring thoughts. )
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| God, I Feel Fat |
[12 Jun 2008|12:24am] |
| [ |
mood |
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i don't know where come words |
] |
| [ |
music |
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iron & wine - communion cups and someone's coat |
] |
Sometimes I go days without saying anything profound. Or I give out words in meager doles for lack of anything material or emotional to give. But eventually the silent nights accumulate and I cannot accommodate the thrashing of the soul as I kill it every night to go to sleep. Instead of writing the ringing words, I fight them, zenlike, as hopelessly as one fights heartburn. It doesn't lead to pleasant sleep.
Simple things strike me. We have to live every day. We have to live every hour with only the choice between sleeping or waking. We can't stop. Time is so limited and inexorable and I can't be that way. I couldn't live that way, in such expanses of time like 12 hours.
I do things alone. When I do things alone, I wonder if anyone will ever do these things with me and if it would be any different if they did. I want to care about people. But people are so disappointing lately.
I feel older and more used to my body. But I still remember the old dream of floating effortlessly and immediately down my stairs, running down the gentle slopes of school fields, across the vast glazes which coat our days. That is the different life. To live freely. With effortless intent. Give me that for now. In return, I will give you more meaningless and dead words.
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| I Hate Human Beings |
[01 Jun 2008|01:18am] |
| [ |
mood |
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oppressed |
] |
| [ |
music |
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cursive - the recluse |
] |
Today, I make a vow never to ingest caffeine again. But I am a nothing with nothing words. The only thing I ever had was a dream of a sound, a rhythm, the thing you hear that is behind every beautiful word, every note, every dream.
I have learned that I must live for nothing. The future must be bleak, blank, tirelessly abraded for the sake of the present. Only then will my nights mean anything. Nothing means anything if I have to wake up the next morning. Everything falls apart in the face of such oppression. If there is the need, the requirement, to wake up in the morning at an unnatural hour, then tonight is dissolved into lonely, clear bile. Tonight retains nothing and burns evilly.
My head hurts. My eye twitches. Never again the artificial answer to sleepiness which ruins me in impotent desire. I thrash against every emotion I ever felt; I long for girls with beautiful eyes at this hour, with the infinite lines of their corneas radiating color from the sublime. I would see forever and never want to look away and I would go blind for the luminance.
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| Wasted Paper |
[27 May 2008|12:13am] |
| [ |
mood |
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fuckshit |
] |
| [ |
music |
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elliott smith - miss misery |
] |
I got my friend a life-sized cutout of a model holding a beer bottle. I figured that since he moved to Tacoma, he would be very lonely. He tells me that he does nothing at home because no one lives near him. This way, he won't be as lonely maybe.
But the fucking thing knocked over a glass jar in my room, spilling dried beans, plastic flowers, and shards of glass all over my carpet. I was late for work and I spent most of the night partying and playing video games with old friends and I just left it for when I came back. I told my brother, comatose yet ignorantly responsive because of the same party, not to let the dog in my room because of the glass.
Twelve hours later I get back with my parents from work and my door is open and I feel disappointed in the subconscious memory of my brother. I procrastinate and then finally get around to cleaning up the glass and stuff on my floor.
I scooped up the assorted beans that were in the jar and put them into the styrofoam box that held my dinner. I put in the plastic flowers that seemed to wilt and drop petals when I brushed them off. They were dying, I tell you. I never watered them. I put in the shards of glass and noticed the tiny gleam of glass crumbs in the carpet. Those fuckers. So I brought up the vacuum cleaner and vacuumed them.
I remember when I was younger (and it seems that I only consider my life in retrospect nowadays, as if I'm living at the final end of my life with nothing to look forward to, my greatnesses past me) when I rode my bike through the neighborhood, visiting my friends, going to the grocery store to buy Jones soda. I remember the broken glass bottles in the gutters, and I thought they looked like broken dreams, although I'm not the kind to endure cheap symbolism anymore. I just remember how the corners were white in the light. But I don't do that anymore.
I feel emotion. Some days, recently, I felt frustrated at life and at girls and at money and at the impossibility of things, the impossibility of accomplishing anything by oneself worth mention. I wish I could just be my own person. I wish I didn't need to tie everything to my name and I could just live off cash and po boxes and no-commitment contracts.
Other days, I feel saddened by life. The great enduring of humans through life and the inevitability of the continuation of time and how the only escape I ever had to consider for myself was to sleep, to stop trying and allow the universe to overtake me in this fucking pointless race for God knows what.
And I'm not fucking original. All these things that people feel, other people feel too. But everyone else seems caught up in it. People disgust me. People assume that if there is a word for it, then you don't have to think about it anymore. I just don't think people have the same response to things that I do.
And god fucking dammit I keep daydreaming about girls in my sleep deprived state. About eyes and shyness and my hand on her waist and a nose that accepts my nose next to it as I kiss her. I need to get fucking laid or something.
And one day, I'll write that screenplay about the mime and one day, I'll write the play about asking someone to marry me. I can see the post-it notes on the wall and the horrible scrawl in my notepad and all the wasted paper. I can see myself never getting things done, never getting anything published, and being a failure forever. I mean, that's pretty depressing.
And god dammit, human emotion is a bitch. Everyone seems to be ruled by it like the uneducated plebeian or tries to ignore it like they're fucking Nietzsche or something. You just have to accept that it is, because you're going to feel it and then you're going to want to do something, even if that something is to sleep and give up and long for a girl who's perfect in most of the important ways. Goddamit, I feel fucked up and all I am is just beat down by my emotions and not high or drunk or anything else that other people need to be. All I need is some tired rhythm to make me hate myself and a bit of ginger ale to be my friend.
I had something to say. I had something really important to say. I don't know why I can't go to sleep. It was something important. Direct brilliance, insanity compelled to useful function by the rigid meters of the human soul, or something like that. I don't remember what words were on the post-it note that I threw away. Why do I prefer to be certain things? Why am I what I am? How do I let someone else know? Just God fucking damn. Maybe when I'm not so tired. Fuckshit.
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| Is This Even a Poem? |
[15 May 2008|11:24pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
listen to it while you read |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
colin hay - waiting for my real life to begin |
] |
My Parents Drive Me Home From Work
I look at the lights without my glasses on and all of the lights are blurry. I like it that way because my eyes don't strain themselves to make out every insignificant detail, nor does the rest of me. And the rest of me is often tired from straining. The rest of me gets caught up. Caught up in the wondrous delusions of beautiful girls and the road ahead rather than the sky above or the grass below or even the floating lights of the blurry night suspended in dark above dividers and dark nothing.
I get caught up in things. I get caught up in the people around me like I'm drowning in their lives, like I can't breathe through everything they like and want to share. Or it's like I forget to breathe full, deep, profound, unrestricted, honest breathes and all I have left are the shallows of my heart where sobs are born.
And I really want to hold hands with a girl. But I feel so ugly and disgusting and hateful that it feels like no one would want me. And I think that if a girl's fingers met mine, then maybe it would feel like acceptance and if I ever felt that, I would cry. I would feel my throat move up centimeters and the night would get more blurry and I would weep because I would be happy.
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| Sadness is a Beautiful Blank Diary |
[04 May 2008|09:44pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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blah |
] |
| [ |
music |
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three dog night - shambala |
] |
[06:59:04] fourstrifes: it really really sucks being a horny teenage guy
[06:59:34] Anonymoose22: I'm sorry.
[06:59:43] Anonymoose22: I can't commiserate on that front.
[06:59:47] fourstrifes: haha
[06:59:51] Anonymoose22: I have something that passes for tits, after all.
[07:00:05] fourstrifes: But then again,
[07:00:40] fourstrifes: there are girls that say that they are horny, but when you offer them cunnilingus and fingerings, they immediately clam up.
[07:00:44] fourstrifes: u_u;
[07:00:53] fourstrifes: As time goes by,
[07:00:57] fourstrifes: it gets worse and worse.
[07:01:09] fourstrifes: u_u;
[07:01:21] fourstrifes: Horniness sucks
[07:04:48] Anonymoose22: I really can't speak for my gender. Most girls annoy me.
[07:04:52] fourstrifes: Me too.
[07:05:01] fourstrifes: As in, most girls annoy me too.
[07:05:18] fourstrifes: Or maybe it's just a lot of people in general.
[07:05:23] Anonymoose22: I know what you were saying.
[07:06:33] fourstrifes: Don't you ever get horny?
[07:06:44] fourstrifes: Or just desirous of another person?
[07:07:28] Anonymoose22: Desirous of someone, yes. Horny, yes.
[07:08:56] fourstrifes: I find that,
[07:09:13] fourstrifes: I want to do things to a girl.
[07:09:16] fourstrifes: oh
[07:09:16] fourstrifes: yeah
[07:09:22] fourstrifes: I'm really perverted right now.
[07:09:40] fourstrifes: or maybe I'm perverted always
[07:09:43] fourstrifes: or just sometimes
[07:09:49] fourstrifes: yeah, just sometimes
[07:11:06] fourstrifes: Sometimes I don't feel horny and sometimes I do.
[07:11:18] fourstrifes: Before I keep talking about perverted things, would you rather that I stop?
[07:11:40] Anonymoose22: If perversion bothered me, would I be from 4chan?
[07:13:12] fourstrifes: Just recently,
[07:13:26] fourstrifes: I found myself desiring just a physical relationship with a girl.
[07:13:36] fourstrifes: Which, honestly, I'd never really thought of before.
[07:14:09] fourstrifes: I presume that you have your own particular preferences as to how you'd satisfy your own sexual urges.
[07:14:12] fourstrifes: As do I.
[07:14:38] fourstrifes: Do you have any particular interest? I feel like telling you about things I'd want to do to a girl.
[07:19:53] fourstrifes: It's not that I want a girl to suck me off or something.
[07:19:59] fourstrifes: Or to have just sex.
[07:20:16] fourstrifes: That's just physical pleasure.
[07:20:25] fourstrifes: Merely slightly better than masturbation.
[07:20:36] fourstrifes: The desire is for a person.
[07:21:07] fourstrifes: Something alive, struggling, horrifically beautiful.
[07:21:28] fourstrifes: I want to touch the curves of a girl.
[07:21:50] fourstrifes: I want to follow them with my hands.
[07:22:02] fourstrifes: I want to know the feel of her hair,
[07:22:42] fourstrifes: I want to see the coyness of her eyelashes and feel the shyness of her tongue.
[07:23:00] fourstrifes: I want to make her body alien onto itself.
[07:23:16] fourstrifes: I want to be able to fill a girl with pleasure
[07:23:24] fourstrifes: so much that her body revolts against her mind.
[07:23:39] fourstrifes: I want to make a girl scream
[07:23:44] fourstrifes: from pleasure
[07:24:22] fourstrifes: I want to make her despair psychologically from simultaneous want and hate and self-abnegation
[07:25:27] fourstrifes: I want to rejoice in her beauty, feel the obliging flesh of her breasts, and hold her arms to the bed while I thrust my penis into her.
[07:25:51] fourstrifes: I want the experience of her, naked, unprotected by rules and norms.
[07:26:06] fourstrifes: Just her honest self, wanting me.
[07:26:38] fourstrifes: I want to make her feel things, I want to make her cry from pleasure she never felt before.
[07:26:59] fourstrifes: I want to see the tears fall from her face and I want to kiss her in her sobbing.
[07:27:51] fourstrifes: I want to create this beautiful misery inside of physical pleasure, the kind of satisfaction that comes from longing for something for so long
[07:28:47] fourstrifes: I want to create her and destroy her, make her feel pleasure and to make her utterly want.
[07:29:15] fourstrifes: I want to feel the power in my hands to make a girl orgasm.
[07:29:35] fourstrifes: I want her to be defenseless, to struggle against pleasure.
[07:29:59] Anonymoose22: Orgasm and pleasure should be a struggle, a war. Not a gift.
[07:30:12] fourstrifes: haha
[07:30:39] fourstrifes: If that is so,
[07:30:44] fourstrifes: then I want to take.
[07:31:15] fourstrifes: I want to possess the beauty for a moment,
[07:31:18] fourstrifes: to hold it.
[07:31:24] fourstrifes: to steal it away for a second.
[07:32:44] fourstrifes: I want to feel you. And do everything you want. I want to make a girl lose control of herself.
[07:33:00] fourstrifes: To make you crazy, to make you scream.
[07:33:15] fourstrifes: To know your breath, your hair, your fingers.
[07:33:49] fourstrifes: I want to know how you shake, the angle of your legs, and the revulsion of the muscles.
[07:33:57] fourstrifes: I want to feel passion.
[07:34:15] fourstrifes: I want to possess it, take it, give it.
[07:34:17] fourstrifes: You know?
[07:34:42] fourstrifes: Is what you want similar?
[07:34:46] fourstrifes: Or complimentary?
[07:36:49] Anonymoose22: It's much the same. The slow drag of fingers down my trembling body. That whole thing. I'm just picky. It's a flaw.
[07:37:21] fourstrifes: That's what I want when I get horny.
[07:37:38] fourstrifes: I want to make you tremble, I want to feel the inches of your skin.
[07:37:47] fourstrifes: I want to know how you react.
[07:38:01] fourstrifes: How you will cry, how you will repulse.
[07:38:31] fourstrifes: And yet, I don't trust any girl who asks for it first.
[07:39:02] fourstrifes: I have to ask for it, or it seems like a trap, or I don't want it.
[07:39:07] fourstrifes: Part of it is initiative.
[07:39:31] fourstrifes: There's nothing I want from you that you can give me. You have to let me take it.
[07:39:36] fourstrifes: Right?
[07:39:59] fourstrifes: But then again, I've never had sex with anyone.
[07:40:58] fourstrifes: I feel really sad that you don't make out with people you just met.
[07:42:24] Anonymoose22: I'm amused by your statement. I've had sex before. He didn't understand the concept of give and take. Mostly take. He wanted me to give, give, give.
[07:42:31] Anonymoose22: I hated giving so much.
[07:43:01] fourstrifes: I love giving.
[07:43:08] fourstrifes: haha
[07:43:23] fourstrifes: It's only by giving that you can really take anything precious, right?
[07:43:51] fourstrifes: Because it's not that you make her revolt against you.
[07:44:15] fourstrifes: You have to make her revolt onto herself. You have to drive her insane before you can ever really have her.
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| While At Work |
[21 Apr 2008|11:09pm] |
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mood |
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robot |
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music |
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daniel johnston - come see me tonight |
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Today, I wanted silence. Then I realized that there are two kinds of silence. One where you hear nothing, and one where you hear everything. And that became the koan-like statement for the day. I wanted to tell someone this revelation about the nature of aural tranquility. But I was working all day. The only person I came close to telling was an awkward tall guy who does computer programming alone into the middle of the night and who said that he likes the rain while it was raining. He looks away when he talks. I wonder if he's merely uniquely sensitive to the stimuli of the world, or just slightly crazy or something. But I didn't tell him.
Then I wondered whether I was unique.
And I read in The Stranger, which I began reading recently, where someone quoted Kerouac's "The only people who are for me..." line. And I wondered if I had become complacent, which slightly terrified me. I realized that no, I was not mad to live. I did not care that much. But I was desirous. I was desirous of the universe in the rain, in the radiating sun, in the cold winds that attack you. I wanted those moments when you are impaled by the universe. And I wanted those moments where the universe falls away in the face of beauty like life itself is vignetting.
I consider that I haven't written anything in a long time. I realize, that really, I just want to give myself to a single person. Lacking that, I write here, for myself. To remember something. To put down the beautiful words. I write these words and edit these words, not because I feel that it's important to say thing to no one in particular, but because I want to feel this in the future. Like the bottle when the drink is gone, the memory is still tangible. The cold burn lingers in the glass because although the ginger ale is gone, we replace it with our melancholy and regret. We remember our feelings and throw them away. And like that, I keep the labels on my door.
All these years, I wrote for myself. And I wanted someone to love me for it, to love these words who are me. Someone to love my regrets and my desires.
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[31 Mar 2008|07:23am] |
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There are times in your life when you forget the taste of real strawberries. But when you have one, it's not as tart as you remember as a kid. It tastes like it was waiting for you to come back to it. And you realize that what you really forgot is how to live.
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