Now it's day, I've been trying to get that taste off my tongue. I was dreaming of just you...
Olivia77 on NOOOOOOOOOOooooooooo...
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Humans Design them.
I hope siannorah comes back to see me.
monsoon. She is the best person I've never met.
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Hitler Cats appears to have been deleted, before I could finish it. How did that happen? It seemed like there was so much to it that I never got to...
Where do I find a large enough coffin for my intrigue?
At Casket Mart. * I knew that already.
*This is an actual location in the town that I live.
Pick me up,so...
I
can
fall
back
down
again
Descending into vertigo...
If it's a crime, then...
hang
me
every time I try
to offer up a reason why
I try
Islands came to the Bluebird Theater in Denver and made my next several days. Thanks, for everything you create and choose to share with us.
If you don't listen and your days are bleak, you know one step to being a little closer to feeling okay.
Took a long walk into the woods
Climbed in the world's biggest tree
And then they tried to cut it down
But we didn't make a sound
The sun blinded them
They couldn't see
Approaching critical mass at which the mind becomes too bored to relate to the real world.
Implosion in...
Three.
Two.
Holding at one.
Why can't these things end. I threw myself on her life like it was a bomb ready to explode and kill everyone in the foxhole. A bomb that keeps going off but won't kill me and won't stop exploding. Little sputtering things, self-deprecatory in nature but still wide in radius. My comrades in arms are telling to get up already, and for the most part I'd like that as well. But volatile or no I've kept it close for a long time. There were certain flourishes that kept me. Sitting in tents we didn't own on days we'd stolen. Like, say. Of all things I miss that one most, and oh so far away it is.
She just asked me why I did it. I said it was because helped me wake up in the morning and go to sleep at night. What I should have said was, I don't know. But that is an old record indeed, with one off-key ditty. I was trying my best, is as much as I can say.
Someone once told me that everything I did for the rest of my life would in some way come back to this. Most would consider this person flighty but in times of introspection she could be very wise, and she has not yet ever lied to me. Sometimes I wished she had.
I want to hope for my little bomb's sake that there's something worth all the shit over the next hill, or perhaps the one after that. But I'm learning that, often, survival is just a wind that touches some and not others. Hope has nothing to do with it. And that's the bottom line, sometimes.
Hope has nothing to do with it.
You can only inhale so much smoke before you just start swallowing it. No more pretending that it sustains you. But I still have half a pack and I'm far from sleep.
And the prevailing question lately has been this.
However do people fill their free time.
Said without the tone of a question. Functioning largely as a sentence waiting to be finished by passerby or persons present than a question with an answer.
And to me he says, what a day, what a day. This is just as much an answer to the question as it is another question itself. And in those cases I answer, however do people fill their free time. Then we go back inside, because even the last days of March are too cold for blank.
Martha, it's too cold for ballerina flats. Wait. Dennis, it's too cold for the sprinkler. Wait.
God, it's too cold for people. Wait.
Wait for spring, just a little while longer, everyone. The way that you can remember yesterday had snow, today has snow, and tomorrow will have snow, winter must have swallowed all the other seasons long before the rise of man. Cold stretches before you infinitely, memories of warmer times must have been fever dreams because all there is and all there ever has been is the snow. For all we know winter is forever.
Sometimes. That's how it is.
So she made promises forever and ever to him, and she can't see me so my smile is patronizing like a cruel teacher watching a child complete a task incorrectly. Like the teacher I never taught the right way and so it's largely my fault, but I've seen this so many times that even the disappointment has gone and all that's left is a knee jerk little grin.
It ain't gonna be a gold star, little girl, but maybe you'll grow up happy anyway. We can only watch and hope now. Their lives have gone to a place where I cannot touch them.
Margot.
When I was younger, my own little skew on wanting to grow up was that I wanted to be treated like an adult from the get-go. I resented learning things from cute little mnemonics and sing-song wordplay. Tall people didn't need rhyming games to know how to add and to subtract and to punctuate, and so neither did I. Mascot characters and other methods of kiddy instruction were condescending to me. They were a crutch that I refused to believe I was crippled enough to need. Either teach me what I need to know to be equal with the rest of the adult world or leave me alone to learn it myself; this thought sums up my early educational experiences.
So imagine my surprise when I reach legal maturity, move out from under my parent's roof, hold down a job among the adult world I was in such a hurry to join, and come home at night to a figurative brood of spoiled children, only to find I feel more like a child than I ever did before. Why this is or even how to describe this sensation eludes me, but still the overbearing sense that myself and everyone I meet, even the eldest of society, still haven't moved past the point of being children pervades my day to day thoughts.
At this point what I when I say like children, what I mean is not when to you refer to a person as being child-like. I mean more along the lines of when you would call a person childish. The part of children that we find don't romanticize. Not the boundless imagination and the wide-eyed innocence. The other stuff.
I have the sort of headache that only music can cure. If only I knew what music, because no voice or instrument I have recorded is helping.
I would very much like it to rain. It's been threatening for days. I would like some sort of sign that this summer is about something beyond suffocation and mosquito bites. And the local breed of mosquito is very large and very persistent, and has no qualms attacking those asleep first.
My birthday was Saturday. My parents sent me money. My grandmother sent me a card saying I don't call my family enough. My roommates bought me an ice cream cake. My best friend, I call him brother, to me, he gave the sensation of being a social pariah. The mosquitoes got me mosquito bites.
I got myself a pot of cacti. I only wanted one. Just one cactus to sit on my windowsill. To maintain his own (spiky) boundaries. To not need constant re-potting. To photosynthesize sunlight and spare thoughts. To not die. I couldn't find one. They only come in gaggles(that is a correct collective term). Plants have now started to come with drunken uncles and dysfunctional romantic relationships, pre-potted.
This is them. The photograph is bad, because the camera in my laptop sucks, but the gist is there. It's not that I can't deal with their cactaceaen problems. I don't deliberately try to hate this sort of arrangement. It's that, the more cacti there are, the less I feel I can connect with each one individually. I can't just water one, I have to water all of them. Right now, I can't even begin to think which one I would go to Seattle with. The one with the flower will probably make a lot of things really hard for me.
The world is a metaphor, as are most things in it. I'm very hungry.
I would really like to talk to monsoon.
For starters, I like some new bands I used to never know the existence of.
I moved out of my parent's house.
Sulking has become something I almost enjoy.
I might be taller.
I have acquired a largely uninspiring wage-slaving job.
I am disdainful of new people I meet with more frequency than before.
I don't put any more effort into college than I did high school.
I keep confiding in people that I probably shouldn't.
All my t-shirts come from the internet anymore.
I use more sentence fragments! And exclamation points.
I think I'm developing an unhealthy need for attention.
Some of these are more subjective than others. Some may be downplayed or exaggerated. Some may be so tinged with irony they have emerged at the opposite end of the spectrum and have become sincere again. This list is far from exhaustive, also. But I haven't slept yet, and that's one thing that hasn't changed about my appearences on motime. In my considerable downtime I don't think I've done much of note.
Nowadays I spend most of my time trying to kill God. What my life is may be God trying to kill me back, or God doing something else entirely. Either way, that's the funny thing about fate: when the time comes you probably think it's your idea. Most people who are repulsed by the first two sentences will fail to understand the third. The point is that no matter how much your expectations for yourself shift, proving yourself equal to or better than an omnipotent being never seems like a waste.
It can't be that much longer. He never really seemed like that big of a deal in the first place.
I will be back to this later.
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