metaphysical700
04-30-2003, 06:35 PM
Please note, this was penned the 03-03-03. I don't feel like this anymore.
We're the type of family where if one of us gets a cold, the other 3 won't necessarily be infected with it. I'm here because I'm at an advanced university slightly prematurely and can't afford my own place. Our petri dish bedrooms facilitate our immunity. I lean towards moping in there. I say nothing at the dinner table, being held feels un-natural. I read books that pick at the scabs formed or abdicate the foreplay all together and shatter any allusions I might have had happiness.
I feel so lonely so much; I do nothing to fix it.
The way I feel is so fragile, the slightest thing can change everything. Un-fulfilling exchanges, other people's bad days. I'm bleak, blank and a fraud. This isn't a moment of clarity, there's no watery tear marks adorning this page but that doesn't mean I don't feel dead inside. I want my life to be a classic novel, that's my problem.
The butterfly's life span is approx. two days
A lack of passion with no progression
I feel there's not enough time to do anything at all. So I don't. I mope around and wait for my daily coupon to expire. I've still done nothing, nothing I can claim I've achieved.
Today, I wanted to throw a glass in my kitchen to hear and watch it smash. I've lived the same week over and over since I was fourteen, maybe fifteen.
I don't react to provocation at all, but I'm starting to. I want to tell people to fuck off on a daily basis, and fantasise of beating them into a pulp. Watch the blood splatter from their face and squirm at their screams.
My life ceases outside of two houses. I do nothing. I'm so cynical and critical, especially of myself. I denied myself so much, in favour of the tedium of sitting alone, silent for hours marvelling at flashing lights and database generated response and opinion. I'll never change and I hate myself for it.
I want to be someone else. I want to go back and do things differently everyday just about. I'm in my prime, wasting away.
It's my own advice that I can't swallow.
I'm done now, body closed. Don't take it out on me.
I'm a small virus that judges movement and picks chances. This is not my life. Worthless adolescent aping poetry. 42 more days to go. (April 18th)
Do you ever see past the mirror, ever?
april 18th - I've felt like this 4 or 5 times since. It seems to occur every 2 weeks or so... insane... It doesn't actually feel regular, like a menstruation cycle does, i'd imagine, but.. that's how a objective arguer might construe it.
It? ha, my emotions, neuro-chemicals blah blah blah.
Yesterday, I read polaroids from the dead for the first time, with the window open and the sun shining with heavy rain. I felt amazing and scribbled qoutes from the book onto my walls. I tried to take a photograph of flowers that My girlfriend gave to me. Balanced them on the window sill for an age waiting for inspiration. A blast of wind, WHOOSH! Over the edge they toppled, and smashed on the patio beneath. THey would have smashed over my father's head had he been standing there like he often does. His own son, killing him in the name of permeating a picture of dead flowers onto high gloss paper. For £2.99. Imagine that. I called her up to tell her, she was in a foul mood and didn't feel like talking, whereas for a change, I wasn't in a foul mood, and did feel like talking.
We're the type of family where if one of us gets a cold, the other 3 won't necessarily be infected with it. I'm here because I'm at an advanced university slightly prematurely and can't afford my own place. Our petri dish bedrooms facilitate our immunity. I lean towards moping in there. I say nothing at the dinner table, being held feels un-natural. I read books that pick at the scabs formed or abdicate the foreplay all together and shatter any allusions I might have had happiness.
I feel so lonely so much; I do nothing to fix it.
The way I feel is so fragile, the slightest thing can change everything. Un-fulfilling exchanges, other people's bad days. I'm bleak, blank and a fraud. This isn't a moment of clarity, there's no watery tear marks adorning this page but that doesn't mean I don't feel dead inside. I want my life to be a classic novel, that's my problem.
The butterfly's life span is approx. two days
A lack of passion with no progression
I feel there's not enough time to do anything at all. So I don't. I mope around and wait for my daily coupon to expire. I've still done nothing, nothing I can claim I've achieved.
Today, I wanted to throw a glass in my kitchen to hear and watch it smash. I've lived the same week over and over since I was fourteen, maybe fifteen.
I don't react to provocation at all, but I'm starting to. I want to tell people to fuck off on a daily basis, and fantasise of beating them into a pulp. Watch the blood splatter from their face and squirm at their screams.
My life ceases outside of two houses. I do nothing. I'm so cynical and critical, especially of myself. I denied myself so much, in favour of the tedium of sitting alone, silent for hours marvelling at flashing lights and database generated response and opinion. I'll never change and I hate myself for it.
I want to be someone else. I want to go back and do things differently everyday just about. I'm in my prime, wasting away.
It's my own advice that I can't swallow.
I'm done now, body closed. Don't take it out on me.
I'm a small virus that judges movement and picks chances. This is not my life. Worthless adolescent aping poetry. 42 more days to go. (April 18th)
Do you ever see past the mirror, ever?
april 18th - I've felt like this 4 or 5 times since. It seems to occur every 2 weeks or so... insane... It doesn't actually feel regular, like a menstruation cycle does, i'd imagine, but.. that's how a objective arguer might construe it.
It? ha, my emotions, neuro-chemicals blah blah blah.
Yesterday, I read polaroids from the dead for the first time, with the window open and the sun shining with heavy rain. I felt amazing and scribbled qoutes from the book onto my walls. I tried to take a photograph of flowers that My girlfriend gave to me. Balanced them on the window sill for an age waiting for inspiration. A blast of wind, WHOOSH! Over the edge they toppled, and smashed on the patio beneath. THey would have smashed over my father's head had he been standing there like he often does. His own son, killing him in the name of permeating a picture of dead flowers onto high gloss paper. For £2.99. Imagine that. I called her up to tell her, she was in a foul mood and didn't feel like talking, whereas for a change, I wasn't in a foul mood, and did feel like talking.