White space is silence... [entries|friends|calendar]
fourstrifes

[ website | what i listen to ]
[ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ]
[ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

While At Work [21 Apr 2008|11:09pm]
[ mood | robot ]
[ music | daniel johnston - come see me tonight ]

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.

3 comments|post comment

[31 Mar 2008|07:23am]
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.
2 comments|post comment

Technicolor [17 Feb 2008|11:59pm]
[ mood | not there ]
[ music | arcade fire - cold wind ]

My shoes have holes in them. I feel worse for the wear.

I want to float forever. I want to drift endlessly upon empty afternoons and gaping passions of songs. Life brings me down. It's so hard to care. What can you care about when you don't care about life?

My room is messy. I have all these receipts that mean nothing. I have books I haven't read. All I want to do is sleep forever.

3 comments|post comment

Silent Circumstances [28 Jan 2008|03:02am]
[ mood | stressed ]
[ music | spoon - my mathematical mind ]

All these people trying to be something and I just get tired of it. I ask myself what I live for. I just get tired like I just want to stop everything and wait out everything and wait until nothing bothers me again

I've been driving so much. For hours. I get lost and make my maps in my head and find some kind of absolution of existence out there under the endless streetlights. I sing the loud and practiced words. The only thing I truly profess to feel at times. I mean, I drive for hours and ask myself what I live for. I count the things I have to do for the next day. I feel disappointed.

I really don't have much to say lately. The things I feel are fleeting. And then I go back to what I was doing, or play video games and waste my life away. I sleep more than enough. I really can't help myself. I just want things to stop. Do I feel overwhelmed?

I have two dollars to my name. This after gas and groceries. And my new box of 132 prismacolor pencils. I can't draw lines. What am I doing?

I really want it to snow tonight. I don't want to go to school. I want to sleep 16 hours and then sleep for 8 more hours. I have to learn my lines for the play. I have to read for my class. I have to memorize my parts for choir. I have to write something just because words mean less and less as days pass. I ask myself what I live for. I never really come up with anything. But I keep living. I keep doing what people tell me. I show up almost every day. What do I care about? I want something that stays important no matter how much you pick at it, not matter how much you feel it, you still feel it, it still matters every second and you can cling to it like the mast of a sinking ship.

I make myself tired. I eat occasionally. I don't brush my teeth enough. I'm ugly as fuck. I need contact lenses. There are so many books I never got around to reading. I see people who feel things strongly. I think to myself how I could not feel strongly. I can't even see why anything bothers people. I understand, but I can't even react to things enough to write anything coherent. I never really care. I just do things. I just keep living. I just keep taking everything in until I can't anymore. The cold gears of society bother me. But do I really care?

I don't really talk to anyone. I spend my life denying the importance of human emotion yet continually try to justify it. I can't live without it. But what should I care about? What is there to make me feel anything? Nothing. Thus I feel meaningless, a cog of the universe. It's the horrible situation.

It's the state of my life. Fueled by stress and responsibility. Starved by a lack of anything to care about. Bemused by indifference towards everything. There's no possible way to care. No passion to take up without feeling mislead. Nothing except to sleep and wake and work. I would feel free. I feel stressed. Slowly my humanity will catch up to me. Slowly I'll lose my grip on time and end up standing and watching the sunset, listening to music, facing all of my failures simultaneously again.

I have nothing to say to justify myself as a human being. But this itself is unnecessary. We just want to. Don't you get how arbitrary we are? We want things that we don't need. We care about things that are irrelevant to us. We persist in living and look for reasons to continue. But I can't find much of anything. So I get trampled in this human momentum, I drown in the tidal wave of human desire, of the human capacity to take in the universe. Do you see how I relate to life? I am tired.

5 comments|post comment

It Frightens Me to Compare Myself [18 Dec 2007|03:07am]
[ mood | anticipatory ]
[ music | andrew bird - the water jet cilice ]

What I'm afraid of is being generic.

What I like most about driving in the rain is when you drive under a bridge or an overpass and for a moment the rain ceases and it's quiet like a breath that you really need.

I really want to get rid of all the words that I don't need. You crumble them and keep only the firm and tenacious.

I can't care. I don't believe in myself. I never needed to except for this. For writing. I don't believe in the things that I say I want or even the words that I say. I look at life and it crushes me how I can't tell what I'm doing, how far my actions reverberate. Significance is unquantifiable and I, in frailty, dishearten to trust that today I have made some difference. I really wish I could feel or just know how far I go, how far I matter.

I'm so tired. My eyelids throb closed. And I open them. I open myself to the world to try to offer it a few more words. I think I'm waiting for something. And it drives me insane because I know nothing is going to happen. I'm just here, waiting for the universe, trying to be open. I want to take in something, so I swallow my own words. My hands are tired. Maybe, what it is when you listen to songs, it is the exhaustion of hope. I have to ruin myself to sleep.

9 comments|post comment

To Want Nothing But God [15 Dec 2007|01:03am]
[ mood | cold ]
[ music | death cab for cutie - information travels faster ]

Let me try to say a lot of things.

I had my wisdom teeth extracted yesterday. It doesn't hurt. I wasn't scared. I tried to take a nap while waiting in the chair. I don't remember any of it. I had some nice sleep afterwards. And then my mom drove me home and I replaced the gauze a few times and went to sleep again. It doesn't hurt except when I try to eat. I can feel the stitches in the back of my mouth. I wish I could sing. But it hurts then too. I'm afraid of dry sockets. I listen to songs and I want to sing but I can't and things well up inside. Is that what it feels like to deny yourself anything? It reminds me of unrequited love, being unable to sing. I'm eating relatively solid food just the day after. Don't feel sorry for me when I talk about pain because I ate KFC which is an exercise in gastronomic masochism. I'm just always afraid that I might open my mouth too wide and rip out the stitches that are held by tender and raw gums. I wonder when the flesh will come back. I didn't bother with the oxycotin because it doesn't hurt any but I'm taking my antibiotics regularly.

So I've laid around in bed for two days, playing pokemon. I spent 11 hours catching them all a few days ago with an action reply on the last day of my classes. The teacher treated everyone in stagecraft to ice cream but I was hungry so I had chicken katsu from the teriyaki place next door and I paid for all my own food. I played pokemon up until my oral surgery and in the room with the special floor and the medical monitors, I gave my ds to my mom before they hooked up the monitors. But when they took a while to get back, I wanted my game back but my mom wouldn't give it back to me. Of course I was being childish. I pouted a little and then decided to sleep a little. Afterwards, I played pokemon at home and then went to sleep. Today, I'm traveling up Mt. Coronet to fight Palkia.

I'm thinking about what we care about. It's not like anything we say is really important. I won't want to read this tomorrow. I mean, what do I want to say? I want to talk about grandiose things, things to make me forget about all the things that help me forget about life. Vague, immense ideas that can only be partially articulated. I've spent the last week listening to death cab for cutie and sleeping early. I don't know why all the things I really enjoy make me sleepy. Maybe it's easier for me to give myself to sleep if I don't have to feel anything myself, but rather just feel something else. It's always been this big deal with me, to give myself to someone else. I still want to sing but I can't. What I think is beautiful in people is passion. Passion is synonymous with value, importance. Isn't what we consider important our definition as people? Maybe. All I know is that I don't feel happy when I don't have anything to care about. I mope and sleep and play pokemon as if I had nothing better to do. I end up staring at the clock, wish there was still some PM left in the day. And I can't be tired because I still haven't explained life.

Misery isn't caused by anything. The only thing I feel that could ever really be considered misery is more like the abject crushing of everything. It doesn't hurt. You can be happy. It is the state of being crushed by our desires. It's like you collapse inside when you realize you want something incredibly badly. I never understood why we feel such strong emotions in our chest. We don't even have to shiver when it's cold. But sometimes when you feel small it becomes hard to breathe. What do I want? Haven't I been talking about that all along? I want to be warm. I wish I didn't have to sit alone. I want to say what I've been wanting to say. I want to sing along to death cab for cutie. I want to talk about this single great desire for the words to validate my life because sometimes it seems like they're the only thing that can. I kind of want to feel good. But it's enough to almost say something.

4 comments|post comment

I See Things in Black and Not-Black [19 Nov 2007|02:17am]
[ mood | deprived ]
[ music | some by sea - only one bullet ]

I wish I were a better person. I need to take stock of my life. Hasn't it always been that? Isn't this the act of readjusting my head and correcting the soul with blurry lens 1 or sharp lens 2. That analogy is less striking with lens 3 and lens 4 whose only difference is that one is softer and one is harsher and you have to choose now and forever how you want to see the world, whether or not you will regret the decision you make, if you will regret who you will be. I mean, how do you understand life. I feel lost.

I want someone to tell me what life is. I want the exact ratio of misery and hope that constitutes our sugary lives. Where is perseverance when you need it? God, I'm thirsty.

I want to write something new. I want to tear something loose to sleep on. Some dream or desire, some perverse understanding of the world as I see it. It's just hard to do anything for yourself. And I feel old.

I don't know where emotions come from. I mean, I feel something now. Right now, I feel something. But I don't know what it is. It's like I'm tired, and sad, and miserable, and I'm alive, and everything is waiting for me, and everything is open, and I could wish for things. It's right there, under the sternum, where you breathe.

1 comment|post comment

Can You Feel? [24 Oct 2007|12:39am]
[ mood | not really tired ]
[ music | bump of chicken - hybrid rainbow ]

My watch is seven minutes fast and my car is three minutes slow. How fast do you have to set your clock until you lose grip on the days? How long until the hours mean nothing and get lost in the time difference? Maybe the whole question is absurd.

My schedule is killing me in the spaces when I don't get a lunch break. It occurred to me that I wake up at six and get home at six and that I only get 12 hours in which to sleep and do homework. Obviously, something extraneous must go.

I stopped thinking for a long time. What reminded me of a lot of things is the White Stripes on my car stereo as I wonder how late I am for my first class. I think about very few things. I've been so busy that the only things I've had the chance to feel is the understanding of a song and minutes that keep pounding into you like a mantra.

I've stopped thinking because there are so few things I care about. I don't really have anything. I'm just absorbing things and biding my time.

2 comments|post comment

Everything Can Be Solved With Love [15 Sep 2007|04:25am]
[ mood | or fire ]
[ music | andrew bird - armchairs ]

My friend lives on a long, winding street that passes the water and goes into thick trees that block GPS satellite communications. The trees are dark and green and tall. The front of the house he lives in stares right at them. And if you're driving on this road, the sky looks like a valley of light that turns like a river.

Outside my own window, I see the streetlamps eternally orange. Whenever I am thirsty, from the top of the stairs, I can see the red light of the intersection. And sometimes I really, really wish I could see the stars.

But no matter where you live, the world falls off beyond the distant houses and streets where familiarity ends. Wherever you live, we are imprisoned in familiarity.

I washed all the dishes and pots and pans and prepared the rice for breakfast. I need to be able to drive in five hours to pick up my parents at the airport. I should stop eating these caffeinated mints. Or eat more.

1 comment|post comment

Not to Mention the Gazillion Street Lights [01 Sep 2007|03:47am]
[ mood | disappointed with a lot ]
[ music | the postal service - sleeping in ]

I stayed up late to see the meteor shower but it is too cloudy to see anything.

1 comment|post comment

I Can't Remember Anything [30 Aug 2007|10:11pm]
[ mood | so tired of childish things ]
[ music | cold war kids - used to vacation ]

I asked myself what I lived for. A dream of a girl. Nothing else could persuade me from the awful, dreary pleasure of watching the perpetual cycle of our emotions validating themselves until I come face to God. Although I forget when I play video games.

I'm learning things still. Like how to brush your teeth before bed and how to do the dishes. I'm still learning.

I've gotten good at not thinking about things. I slept for hours and I watch each day pass. If I went to sleep now, tomorrow will forgive me and nothing will change. I hate the watching. I hate being merely a state of the mind. Everything keeps happening and I feel so inconsequential.

I want to write a book about searching for the perfect song. But it isn't really about any particular song at all. It's just that one note of humanity. All I yearn for is the one eternal, lugubrious interval to realize that tired, awkward, fading beat that probably encompasses life.

5 comments|post comment

In the Kingdom of Spain, There Are Such Colors [22 Aug 2007|09:55am]
[ mood | ...of love... ]
[ music | the decemberists - the kingdom of spain ]

I am just sitting here, singing this song.

I am not really alone. The dog is looking at me from my bed.

My favorite songs are the ones that aren't really sad or happy, but just ask you to feel.

I am not really tired, although the sun hurts my eyes and my voice is scratchy. The words are gentle.

I have things to do, but not right now. Nothing to do but sit on my bouncy ball and balance and sing.

7 comments|post comment

Before I die, I want to: [30 Jul 2007|11:02pm]
[ mood | i might get paid 50 cents ]
[ music | iron and wine - bird stealing bread ]

1. Get drunk.
2. Draw a picture with chalk on the sidewalk.
3. Sing opera.
4. Run a mile at seven o’clock in the morning.
5. Make perfect hashed browns from scratch.
6. Get a GED.
7. Finish my copy of Walt Whitman: The Complete Poems
8. Kiss a girl.
9. Subsequently engage in passionate copulation with said female.
10. Explain what literature is.
11. Road trip to California with my friends in a minivan.
12. Conquer my fear of the ocean.
13. Permanently straighten my glasses.
14. Buy an electric drum kit.
15. Replace my lawn with cement.
16. Finish writing my future doctorate.
17. Obtain a pair of loose fitting denim bellbottoms.
18. Listen to all the music on my hard drive.
19. Learn how to properly do laundry.
20. Go to church every week for a year.
21. Finish learning Spanish.
22. Eat an entire two dollar jawbreaker.
23. Get a Zippo lighter with a cool decal.
24. Finish writing the angsty chronicles of my adolescent malaise.
25. Learn another technically impressive acoustic guitar song besides Mood for a Day.
26. Sell a photograph of people who live each day of their lives in a city yet lack something after all those years in the shadows of buildings.
27. Tailor a suit. One that makes you look like you don’t even know how many people work for you.
28. Move my bed into the corner of the room so I can move the dressers into the other corner of the room.
29. Write a poem that makes me cry.
30. Find out what kind of fish my mom made for me when I was younger.
31. Buy a hand-made tricorn pirate hat.
32. Read all the books on my bedside tables.
33. Write a letter to someone. I already have the stamps and the envelope.
34. Do another jigsaw puzzle of a French impressionistic painting to hang in my bedroom.
35. Buy socks. More socks.
36. Get some new brown shoes while I’m at it too.
37. Find a girl who appreciates the same music and words that I do.
38. Read Walden.
39. Wake up and read an entire day without getting out of bed.
40. Ride a new bicycle under the neighbor’s cherry blossom tree in Spring.
41. Make lots of money that I don’t have to work for.
42. Find the perfect ginger ale.
43. Dye my hair pink.
44. Play piano well.
45. Or, more realistically, play violin well.
46. Hear my dentist say, “Congratulations. No cavities.”
47. Cover the walls of my room in poems and song lyrics and profound advice and the best words.
48. Explain myself to a stranger.
49. Find a radio station that I actually like.
50. Have a stomach that doesn’t jiggle.
51. Be able to say that I lived my life with filial piety.
52. Write up my screenplay about the mime that is crushed by his own letterboxing.
53. Find a song I could listen to forever.
54. Stop drinking soda.
55. Express to someone the beauty of the afternoon light through my window.
56. Take a perfect bubble bath.
57. Play all my father’s old records. Excluding the Black Sabbath.
58. Watch the movie Brick.
59. Live in an apartment with a view near a park.
60. Give my mother a worthy birthday present.
61. Light off a whole 30 dollar box of fireworks at the beach on the Fourth of July.
62. Learn to say “Wither thou goest, I will follow.”
63. Meet Bob Hicok.
64. Spend a week without my computer.
65. Plant a garden with lots of flowers and vegetables.
66. Find a job where I can use my TI-89 graphing calculator every day.
67. Do 20 pushups at a time.
68. Collect all the pokemon.
69. Paint an impressionistic landscape with oils that get on everything.
70. Find a way to strain my pasta.
71. Find where I belong at three in the morning.
72. Impress the clerks at the bookstore with my erudite taste in literature.
73. Call the number to help the poor, starving children in third-world countries.
74. Read a book where no one goes but everyone sees.
75. Fold 10,000 paper stars. My only literal talent.
76. Replace my desk chair with a yoga ball.
77. Find some worldly thing I truly care about.
78. Turn out every single source of light in my room.
79. Teach someone how to write with honest passion.
80. Cook fish.
81. Know that the only girl I ever truly loved has found love herself.
82. Enjoy an afternoon nap.
83. Bare myself to the rain and let it soak my clothes and carry the light of the streetlamps onto me.
84. Watch every episode of Scrubs.
85. Visit my grandmother.
86. Clean out that box of receipts and polaroids and buttons and pushpins and cards and letters and pictures and pencils and memories.
87. Find all the napkins in my room.
88. Rediscover fruits.
89. Love my dog.
90. Be able to live without my watch.
91. Find love again.
92. Truly enjoy anything.
93. Paint my room.
94. Breathe carelessly and freely.
95. Drop off the dry cleaning.
96. Find the best kind of juice.
97. Publish my second book, after the aforementioned, about how we feel it is important to live and to do all the things that living generally entails.
98. Watch live standup comedy.
99. Sing with friends.
100. Alphabetize.
101. Want nothing but God.

5 comments|post comment

These Are the Few Things I Could Spend Hours Experiencing [29 Jul 2007|04:59pm]
[ mood | only the movies are in order ]
[ music | d'oyly carte opera company - on a tree by a river a little tom tit ]

My favorite movies are Harold and Maude, Fight Club, Stranger Than Fiction, and Mad City.

My favorite pieces of writing are Post Office by Charles Bukowski, the end of the What I Lived For chapter of Thoreau's Walden, and the poems of Bob Hicok.

My favorite songs are, at the moment, La Petite Fille De La Mer by Vangelis, Bird Stealing Bread by Iron and Wine, Je Chante Pour Passer Le Temps by Giovanni Mirabassi, Letters and Packages by American Football, Paper Bag by Fiona Apple, Communion Cups and Someone's Coat by Iron and Wine, Here I Dreamt I Was an Architect by The Decemeberists, Going to Marrakesh by The Extra Glenns, Spill the Wine by War, Apricot Tea by The Robot Ate Me, Company Calls by Death Cab for Cutie, and A Steady Diet of Stares by Some By Sea, A Mind of Her Own by Pedro The Lion, The Kingdom of Spain by the Decemberists, Suzanne by Leonard Cohen, Don't Be Scared by Andrew Bird, Scythian Empires by Andrew Bird, Girl Boy Song [nls mix] by Aphex Twin, Tiny Vessels by Death Cab for Cutie, I Wasn't Prepared by Eisley, and Holland, 1945 by Neutral Milk Hotel among others.

4 comments|post comment

Please Misunderstand Me: 253.205.5997 [21 Jul 2007|06:35am]
[ mood | finished ]
[ music | andrew bird - scythian empire ]

I realize now that in order to write, you have to have something important to you. The whole act is subjective. Writing is to make something important. For a long time, I asked myself what is important. And now I settle for nothing. This is why I cannot find anything worthwhile at the bookstore. This is why I find disgust at everyone who makes stories. This is why all I have ever wanted was honesty. Because amusement is nothing.

I have nothing important to me. What should I bother to care about? My life is passing time. Who wants to read that? Who could love that? Who else in the world would want emptiness? A bunch of white space.

I know that I will not be able to write anymore until I find something I care about.

5 comments|post comment

[12 Jul 2007|11:50pm]
Someone give me something I can care about.
11 comments|post comment

A Poem and Some Words [24 Jun 2007|11:41pm]
[ mood | i beat pokemans today ]
[ music | iron and wine - bird stealing bread ]

I want to demarcate all the things that truly belong to me.
I see how people drift on strings and the hands above.
I would be free.
The ice rattles in my glass as no one knows.

I want to love. As I see it, I would not be satisfied with any lesser contentment. I listen to the same song for days. And I don't know what to write. I sat under the window and listened to the wind and divulged from memory the last chorus as much as I could. Because I too want to know whether the bird got to you too.

2 comments|post comment

[13 Jun 2007|10:25pm]
[ mood | at last, free ]
[ music | iron and wine - jesus the mexican boy ]

I never understood why people engage in idle conversation. The fact is that people talk. I often see people have conversations about all sorts of things. They talk about their worries and their excitements and comment on the things that go about around them. I do this too. The ultimate reason for it escapes me, although if you ask yourself, it may be that the answer is merely to pass the time.

But this question still confounds, but follow my reasoning for a moment. We could talk sociology or psychology or better yet philosophy, but ultimately, spiritually and emphatically, we just want to say what is on our minds. As much as I can infer, there is some intuitive need to speak aloud what we are taken up in, what is bothering us, and what we want so badly.

Now follow me. What I wish to espouse is that all instances of communication, every time that we compose a sentence to write or think or say, there is an inherent assumption of importance. What I mean is that I assume that at the most objective, dispassionate level, there is nothing in this world particularly worth mentioning above anything else in the world. This is a particular opinion derived by logic and observation, which happens to resemble aspects of existentialistic and absurdist philosophies. Yet, by virtue of humanity, we are able to imbue things with subjective meaning, importance.

Let me lay this out again. If we ask ourselves what is important, then, should we find anything, we can ask ourselves "Why it is important?" To that answer, we can ask the same question, "Why is it important?" Why is anything important? Ultimately, I have never found any answer that is effectively more than "Because it just is. Because we feel that it's important." Thus, everything we do and say is an exercise in subjectivity. We would not do or say anything except for the feeling that we should.

Specifically applied to instances of language, everything that we say has some inherent assumption of importance, some self-evident pertinence, which in general we take for granted. We don't typically question the value of idle conversation. But if we scrutinize the assumed values in each statement, there is always some presumed importance in everything mentioned that allows us to regard every topic with a kind of sentimental appreciation.

That is, there is no real, objective importance to the crises of gas prices and scandalous gossip and the anticipation of enjoyable social gatherings. But we still care about such topics enough to make statements about them. And every time we say anything, we promote our unique sentimentality, a set of values and things regarded as important. This action of promoting a particular way of interpreting or seeing or sorting out the world by what matters and what doesn't is inherent in the process of bringing any one topic to attention. If we talk about anything, there are things that we aren't talking about, and evidently the things that are talked about are important enough to the speaker to be mentioned.

Understanding that there is an assumed importance to anything said, an importance which is generally taken as self-evident or merely natural, we now have a new perspective with which to view literature. That is, we can analyze the inherent values and appreciate the particular subjectivity promoted in a work. But before we do that, let us consider the nature of fiction.

Fiction, whereas idle conversation generally comprises single statements or extremely rudimentary stories, is generally a more complex narrative, but is still fundamentally a story, something imagined and told by some author without the obvious practical uses of a calculus textbook or other nonfiction. But as with idle conversation, we can ask the same question: What is the point? Why do we tell stories? And the answer is our subjectivity.

TBC

12 comments|post comment

May It End Soon [29 May 2007|01:32am]
[ mood | flying ]
[ music | spangle call lilli line - lilli disco ]

I derive a distinct voyeuristic pleasure from reading what other people write about themselves. To watch them make themselves out to be something. To see them say what they think is important and meaningful. As if anything anyone says is really important.

I refuse to glorify emotion. I am not what I enjoy. I am not who I thank. There is nothing more pointless than I am happy. Or I am sad. But why is it that despite every dead, stoic notion I can ever come up with, I still hold on to the things. The worst poem I ever wrote, and the last thing I ever feel. Why is it that I still see beauty and lovely and can't care for anything but still do?

The thing is I talk about how I feel. The most unimportant thing is what I always do. I waste time in the easiest way because I wouldn't spend time any other way. How curious, how crazy, is it that someone could care about something that isn't their own.

To care about people. To care about food and the view of the stars and windows and the coolness of water. How could I have forgotten everything?

I curl up in bed. I stare at the clock. And I yawn instead of cry.

9 comments|post comment

God So Help Me [28 May 2007|03:22am]
[ mood | needing ]
[ music | andrew bird - don't be scared ]

Yeah, I know it's late. And I know that there are lots of people I haven't talked to in a long time. But I know that I have to say something before I can fall asleep.

I am no different from anyone else, except maybe a little more dissatisfied, if that can be said modestly. I just want something more, as oblique and common as that is. I want the wind to put me to sleep and lawnmowers to run forever, exhaling the smell of summer.

I want things to work. I fixed my computer to work right. I know I am afraid of flies and when the things I use every day won't be there to make things seem familiar anymore.

The reason I am tired is because there ceases to be so many things I'd rather do than sleep. God so help me.

What could I say? That is the question. It goes without saying that what I want is to say things to people, to communicate things, to make myself known and vibrant and important to others. But I don't want sympathy, I just want to say things.

1 comment|post comment

navigation
[ viewing | most recent entries ]
[ go | earlier ]