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fourstrifes

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A Year. A Dirty, Filthy Year. [27 Jan 2013|12:14am]
[ mood | into an abyss ]

Nothing reveals my humanity more than to write. To appeal to another human being with pithy words, laden deceitfully with the pretext that we must live, painfully dredges into view the vestiges of hope and expectation and desire. So I stopped writing.

And when I stopped writing, I became afraid.

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Answer Arises from the Murky Blue Depths of the Intuition [05 Jan 2012|05:12am]
[ mood | anxious ]

It's like panic. The world is shaking. The part of me that has sense for the time left, the time we will have to do something, is exasperated and frantic, reviling me violently. My mouth is dry. My legs are sore. My neck is stiff. My heart beats strongly.

I have given it time. I have emptied time upon time on it. I think perhaps I am afraid of something. I ask myself, is it the future? Do I fear change? Do I fear death? Do I lack anything to be proud of? Am I unhappy with my life? What do I want?

I just can't feel for anything. To care about anything. What is a human being that has no expectations? Such little resolve can be summoned to escape filth and ruin. I haven't cried in years.

It feels like the years will not get better as they pass. But they have not been so bad. The things I have done seem pitiful to anyone but myself because other people appreciate so much more than I do. My teeth clench as my heart beats. There is a fiery welling arising between my shoulders. Each breath reminds me that I have felt this before. The thing that is like a yawn that provokes a tear in the eye. The thing that pulls at the lungs because one is lacking something necessary.

What do I want? I don't really even care to meet a girl. I don't really care what I look like. I wouldn't mind being thinner. I should read more. Life is not really hard. What is it I am looking for? Do I just want to feel differently? Do I want to be happy?

I guess what I like is that feeling right after you wake up and you are rested and you aren't tired. And you wonder what time it is. And you look outside and every day feels different, if only for a moment. Is this what we live for? Are we to achieve a state of mind and body that is free of want? I guess we just have to enjoy something. I have had enough company. I have had enough distraction. I have no stories to tell. I am comfortable enough. How can a song make me feel such longing? Have I missed something, God?

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Such Comfort, Ensconced in a Warm Place [30 Dec 2011|10:26am]
[ mood | jealous ]

Living life with only two aspirin and a handful of phone numbers to my name. I can no longer tell the difference between things. I wonder what it is that the heart moves toward with such cosmic inertia.

I have taken a moment to pause and pay respect to the colossal enigma of life and how we should live and what we should seek and value and what we should tell our friends and our lovers and the vague sense of desire that has neither dulled nor dissipated nor been fulfilled in the entire time I have been alive.

What makes things so heavy today?

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[22 Oct 2011|04:00am]
I'm a jerk. I'm sorry, Ellie. I was a really shitty jerk.
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A Song for Myself [17 Jun 2011|05:43pm]
[ mood | dreaming ]

Listening to this song reminds me of girls I have loved. I never knew what Amara wanted, nor what Vera saw in her photos, nor how to impress Ellie. I daydream about times when I was close to them. About furtive, meaningless glances across the gymnasium. About a first kiss that like wine was not altogether unpleasant yet was beyond me to appreciate. About the night I should have learned that I did not know how to make a girl happy.

I think about Vera the most. It was not that I was in love with her but out of everyone I wanted her to remember me. By then I had dismantled the mechanisms that surround love and I have carried it with me, unadorned and ineffectual, because one day I might find use for it again. Vera is special to me because, to me, she was not caught in the currents that pull us everyday towards the vast, unquantifiable end wherein we lose ourselves. I have to ask myself what I fear in this. What special need is there to remember oneself? Perhaps I am just specially afraid of losing myself, what I have of myself. Anyways, Vera saw something in her photos that I saw too. However, I cannot say what it is. But it was sufficient for her to cling to. The same as I find these words myself enough sometimes. I have yet to ask her what it is that I saw but could not describe, limited as I am to the explicit meanings of words. I can't say she can explain but she will know better than I ever could the wonderous meaning of her photos.

And now I do not love. Whether I am wiser or more wary, I have decided that I must improve myself before I can have a romantic relationship. I feel that it would be difficult for a girl to be involved with someone who is as much nothing as I am. And to a degree it pains me less to be alone now than when I was younger. It is just that this song makes me wistful.

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[19 Feb 2011|01:49am]
Jesus Christ. I keep saying that. Fuck.

The whiteness between these words are really comforting. I just stopped thinking forever. The strands of words escaping my fists until everything is on the floor and I hold nothing. But between these letters is something. I can feel it.
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Morning [12 Oct 2009|09:13am]
I have been awake all night. I drove my cousin to school and got some food from Del Taco. I like the hashbrown and steak burrito, but the chili-cheese fries were unsatisfying. I only ate a few bites while reading a manga online. I wonder if it is a virtue to eat until one is satiated. Whether people without two dollars and fifty cents to spend frivolously could understand the particular kind of respect that moderation requires.

It was just before nine when I thought to write. I always wake up late and make my parents late to work while my brother is always awake well before being told to wake up, doing so at the expense of his sleep. I wold not live on two hours of sleep. But I cannot tell any longer how well I sleep for my whole life is akin to sleeping. When I am awake it is already time to go to sleep. But I stay up all night and fall asleep when the sun makes everything less cold. And at the end of my day, everyone else is asleep and I am a little lonely.
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Writing Exercise [06 Jan 2009|02:47am]
[ mood | normal ]

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 | forstalling ]

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 | coughing ]

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 | in a bad place ]

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 | she sang a short tune ]

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 | vesperia ]

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 | sleepy ]

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 | craggly ]

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]
[ mood | more to add ]

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 | alone ]

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.Collapse )

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