Misspoken and misconstrued
The shadowed truth is.
Reality hidden;
Pockets of honesty.
The shadowed truth is
Inferior to social inclination.
Pockets of honesty:
Glimpses of the naked world.
Inferior to social inclination;
Defy said norm for
Glimpses of the naked world.
This isn’t tangible.
Misspoken and misconstrued,
Defy said norm, for
This isn’t tangible.
Reality hidden.
So when you ask "Is something wrong?" I think "You're damn right there is but we can't talk about it now..."
(Ben Gibbard)
Friday, March 26, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
A Drunk Winter
Indulgent ones do what they do best
Given the candy and the inconsequence.
Wasting away to the familiar void.
To be carefree is brilliant.
But complete freedom
Is sinfully decadent.
And nobody foresaw
Caring for nothing
Is careless.
You said "don't shoot," I said "I won't I love you you're my friend." I handed him my wig and shot myself in the head. -Kimya Dawson
Given the candy and the inconsequence.
Wasting away to the familiar void.
To be carefree is brilliant.
But complete freedom
Is sinfully decadent.
And nobody foresaw
Caring for nothing
Is careless.
You said "don't shoot," I said "I won't I love you you're my friend." I handed him my wig and shot myself in the head. -Kimya Dawson
Monday, January 11, 2010
Passion Pacifies
His moral and beauty shreds
Pages justifying cynicism and disbelief.
Something expected
But diffidently hoped for
Takes place in a parked car.
It is awe, and skeptic is alleviated.
Hunger irrelevant, a bite satisfies
When you’ve been fangless.
"It is a pity that, as one gradually gains experience, one loses one's youth." (Vincent van Gogh)
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Prestige
I met a cancerian who astounded me with honorable morals and an incredibly beautiful outlook. He made me feel like a cynical bitch, but assured me I wasn't, and that he had a good judge of character.
But it made me realize that not much of what I say, think, or write is getting me anywhere. It doesn't matter at all how existential and nihilistic I am, the latter of which has been a coping mechanism for self-worth uncertainty.
What is a girl to do...
But it made me realize that not much of what I say, think, or write is getting me anywhere. It doesn't matter at all how existential and nihilistic I am, the latter of which has been a coping mechanism for self-worth uncertainty.
What is a girl to do...
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Deterioration of Intellect = NaNoWriMo
"The only thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality." -NaNoWriMo. Hence title.
Regardless, it's an easy grade for my Creative Writing 2 class.
Thus far:
All the while each clock ticks, I contemplate seizing the day. However, isn’t being forced to carpe diem a prison in itself? I’d rather breathe the warm air on a walk down a familiar path in lieu of adding to a list of formal accomplishments, egotistical and ultimately meaningless.
I am constantly surrounded by walls I wish would melt, bitches I wish would chill, and the air, whose temperature it seems that I can never be okay with. The ladder, a warm blanket magically placates. The rest I wish could be that easy.
Visions of a sunny wheat field frequently please me, usually while I am anti-socializing with a monitor which mimics my thoughts, translated by the movement of my fingers, trained to work for me, trained to work for a panel of buttons. Thus passes the glory of the world… imperfectly justified by a lacking paradigm.
Continue.
Thank you for the things you think that I should that should thank you for, I’m sure you deserve said thanks, and I hope the sincerity will reveal itself in time. In my young and confused state, I’m doing my best, and am trying to show that, picking up confirmation and opposition variously.
What a long strange trip this is showing to be, though I know I’m still learning how to back out of the driveway. I’ve done it before countless times, but I’m usually pulling back in in less than 24 hours, grody every time, and ready for that blanket to warm me after a night like ones you lie to your parents about every weekend. Some day soon I’ll be backing out of the driveway for the last time, and pulling into one of my own, far away. That’s fucking scary isn’t it? Heading out on the streets backwards? Completely absurd.
Things that we do are the same thing over and over again. We differ by our details which cover the same exact plots. Human nature is pattern, familiarity. I miss listening to a flute in the wind when it’s getting late. My neighbor would practice, but she moved. In remembrance I’m fiddling with a recorder.
Downgrade articulacy: “floccinaucinihilipilification” indeed is worthless.
Black tacos are for newbs. Blatant consumerism at its darkest.
I envy the inconsequence of others. I hate the truth that I am bad at being bad. I don’t know what its like to live on the edge. The closest I get to that is usually skipping my last class to get high and eat a leftover chimichanga. But that’s okay with me for now.
Stories stories stories to develop character. Forgive me my past. No one is the same after time.
Misalignment of the senses creates the facetious irony that I walk through on the daily. A playful melody provides a beat for my fingers to strive to keep up with. So often anticipated events are anticlimactic. The sunrise, it rose, it shone.
Rebel, verb. An adolescent’s yearning to find the balance between standing out and fitting in.
Envy. Jealousy of those that get the attention attention attention. We all need it. Some more than others. Does not needing it make you any stronger? Or weaker for not demanding it?
A bluesy after hours lead, creeping out of a barely tuned piano, played the stumbling fingers of a wino in the town he has lived in since his great independence movement, dropping out of college to find an unconventional life.
Congratulations, everything we do twists us to be more demented from our idealized sense of self. And by the time we realize that, it’s time to dig our own graves.
Deranged I am. Screaming with subtleties, appreciate me damn it. We all look in the strangest places for confirmation. Some wear their insecurities on their sleeves as a way of advertising, because it almost ensures instant consolation.
But we all do what we do. Whether it’s our best or our passive demeanor is an argument of perception. We don’t know who we are. People try their best to output the character they’ve sketched in their minds, but the portrayal is betrayal. Where’s the courage to say “actually, I think your poetry is a reflection of how you try way too hard at being someone you’re not?” Condemnation for attempting to be happy. But the approach for happiness began with the approach of deceit instead of contentment. Be comforted by the fact that all you do is a lost cause, we all become the people we promise ourselves we’ll never become anyways.
The clicking of heels behind my back shrinks me back to grade school, franticly scanning my memory which causes my brain to forget to tell my heart to beat, for something I’ve done rather recently that I could be confronted for.
In the time we have awaiting our inevitable deaths, we analyze the shit out of everything. So judge. It’s all bias. Every single thought we have. Your best friend and her boyfriend are incompatible because you wanted him. She’s messed up because you are jealous of the attention she gets for her problems. We all have problems. Some just make a bigger deal of them. We can all be depressed. Sometimes a pill will fix your chemical imbalance, but therapy won’t fix a shitty situation, and who knows what can change a girl who chooses to have problems for the aesthetic addition to her composition. Sympathize with our individual tragedies.
I don’t love him, I’ve realized, I’d idolized him.
Who cares? Question.
I’m no longer amused. I’m jaded. Will somebody save me? Reinstate nature’s first green as gold? I almost wish I had an extremely boring childhood. Childhood robs you of your amusement at an early age. Happy babies. They don’t always become happy adults. Why not introduce us to life’s pleasures later? Make us wait. Give us something to wait for, live for, besides deterioration and death.
We think we know everything. But what is there to know really? Agnostically, might there be no truth? Do we search for people with the answers, or those who share our uncertainty?
"Nobody ever seems to remember life is a game we play." -Noel Gallagher
Regardless, it's an easy grade for my Creative Writing 2 class.
Thus far:
All the while each clock ticks, I contemplate seizing the day. However, isn’t being forced to carpe diem a prison in itself? I’d rather breathe the warm air on a walk down a familiar path in lieu of adding to a list of formal accomplishments, egotistical and ultimately meaningless.
I am constantly surrounded by walls I wish would melt, bitches I wish would chill, and the air, whose temperature it seems that I can never be okay with. The ladder, a warm blanket magically placates. The rest I wish could be that easy.
Visions of a sunny wheat field frequently please me, usually while I am anti-socializing with a monitor which mimics my thoughts, translated by the movement of my fingers, trained to work for me, trained to work for a panel of buttons. Thus passes the glory of the world… imperfectly justified by a lacking paradigm.
Continue.
Thank you for the things you think that I should that should thank you for, I’m sure you deserve said thanks, and I hope the sincerity will reveal itself in time. In my young and confused state, I’m doing my best, and am trying to show that, picking up confirmation and opposition variously.
What a long strange trip this is showing to be, though I know I’m still learning how to back out of the driveway. I’ve done it before countless times, but I’m usually pulling back in in less than 24 hours, grody every time, and ready for that blanket to warm me after a night like ones you lie to your parents about every weekend. Some day soon I’ll be backing out of the driveway for the last time, and pulling into one of my own, far away. That’s fucking scary isn’t it? Heading out on the streets backwards? Completely absurd.
Things that we do are the same thing over and over again. We differ by our details which cover the same exact plots. Human nature is pattern, familiarity. I miss listening to a flute in the wind when it’s getting late. My neighbor would practice, but she moved. In remembrance I’m fiddling with a recorder.
Downgrade articulacy: “floccinaucinihilipilification” indeed is worthless.
Black tacos are for newbs. Blatant consumerism at its darkest.
I envy the inconsequence of others. I hate the truth that I am bad at being bad. I don’t know what its like to live on the edge. The closest I get to that is usually skipping my last class to get high and eat a leftover chimichanga. But that’s okay with me for now.
Stories stories stories to develop character. Forgive me my past. No one is the same after time.
Misalignment of the senses creates the facetious irony that I walk through on the daily. A playful melody provides a beat for my fingers to strive to keep up with. So often anticipated events are anticlimactic. The sunrise, it rose, it shone.
Rebel, verb. An adolescent’s yearning to find the balance between standing out and fitting in.
Envy. Jealousy of those that get the attention attention attention. We all need it. Some more than others. Does not needing it make you any stronger? Or weaker for not demanding it?
A bluesy after hours lead, creeping out of a barely tuned piano, played the stumbling fingers of a wino in the town he has lived in since his great independence movement, dropping out of college to find an unconventional life.
Congratulations, everything we do twists us to be more demented from our idealized sense of self. And by the time we realize that, it’s time to dig our own graves.
Deranged I am. Screaming with subtleties, appreciate me damn it. We all look in the strangest places for confirmation. Some wear their insecurities on their sleeves as a way of advertising, because it almost ensures instant consolation.
But we all do what we do. Whether it’s our best or our passive demeanor is an argument of perception. We don’t know who we are. People try their best to output the character they’ve sketched in their minds, but the portrayal is betrayal. Where’s the courage to say “actually, I think your poetry is a reflection of how you try way too hard at being someone you’re not?” Condemnation for attempting to be happy. But the approach for happiness began with the approach of deceit instead of contentment. Be comforted by the fact that all you do is a lost cause, we all become the people we promise ourselves we’ll never become anyways.
The clicking of heels behind my back shrinks me back to grade school, franticly scanning my memory which causes my brain to forget to tell my heart to beat, for something I’ve done rather recently that I could be confronted for.
In the time we have awaiting our inevitable deaths, we analyze the shit out of everything. So judge. It’s all bias. Every single thought we have. Your best friend and her boyfriend are incompatible because you wanted him. She’s messed up because you are jealous of the attention she gets for her problems. We all have problems. Some just make a bigger deal of them. We can all be depressed. Sometimes a pill will fix your chemical imbalance, but therapy won’t fix a shitty situation, and who knows what can change a girl who chooses to have problems for the aesthetic addition to her composition. Sympathize with our individual tragedies.
I don’t love him, I’ve realized, I’d idolized him.
Who cares? Question.
I’m no longer amused. I’m jaded. Will somebody save me? Reinstate nature’s first green as gold? I almost wish I had an extremely boring childhood. Childhood robs you of your amusement at an early age. Happy babies. They don’t always become happy adults. Why not introduce us to life’s pleasures later? Make us wait. Give us something to wait for, live for, besides deterioration and death.
We think we know everything. But what is there to know really? Agnostically, might there be no truth? Do we search for people with the answers, or those who share our uncertainty?
"Nobody ever seems to remember life is a game we play." -Noel Gallagher
Monday, October 19, 2009
An Exerpt; Product of Creative Writing
Prose; circa September.
We are all so motherfucking cynical.
I think I’ve educated myself to the point of believing that being happy makes you weak and naïve. But how I wish I could be the blissful, ignorant, and beautiful daughter of Daisy Buchanan.
It’s natural to be drawn to the tragedy. It’s an extreme. We live our ordinary and rather un-notable lives, working hard to achieve our materialistic paradise but underneath our warm cashmere sweaters, or more likely, your high school hoodie, and at the core of our questionable being, our mortal souls dream of escapism.
So we obsess ourselves with those who are free and condemn them as unconventional hell cats spun out on their flavor of the week. While the “abusers” of this kind are getting high, and getting all the pleasure they can out of this incarnation, the rest of us lucklessly wish when the time on the clock reads 11:11 for this life to have meaning; as if there were a reason to slave ourselves to the same clocks we wish upon, instead of running as fast as we can from our eventual ill-fated and inevitable loss in the race against time.
The unattainable feeling of satisfaction forces us to settle for being content, and knowing this, our outlook is bleak. The sprinklings of hope which present themselves as stray glitter on the side of one’s face, or an apple that couldn’t possibly taste any better, are what keep us working nine to five, and thinking that watching a late night show on TV is better than a half-hour of sleeping though this life. But more, you’ll never taste all the flavors this world possesses, and what separates the two types of people here is who decides to gnash endlessly on forbidden fruit, and who are convinced that morals get you anywhere.
This has brought us to the fence. And you know its greener on the other side. Do something about that.
Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite. Or waiting around for Friday night or waiting perhaps for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil or a better break or a string of pearls or a pair of pants or a wig with curls or another chance. Everyone is just waiting. (Dr. Seuss)
We are all so motherfucking cynical.
I think I’ve educated myself to the point of believing that being happy makes you weak and naïve. But how I wish I could be the blissful, ignorant, and beautiful daughter of Daisy Buchanan.
It’s natural to be drawn to the tragedy. It’s an extreme. We live our ordinary and rather un-notable lives, working hard to achieve our materialistic paradise but underneath our warm cashmere sweaters, or more likely, your high school hoodie, and at the core of our questionable being, our mortal souls dream of escapism.
So we obsess ourselves with those who are free and condemn them as unconventional hell cats spun out on their flavor of the week. While the “abusers” of this kind are getting high, and getting all the pleasure they can out of this incarnation, the rest of us lucklessly wish when the time on the clock reads 11:11 for this life to have meaning; as if there were a reason to slave ourselves to the same clocks we wish upon, instead of running as fast as we can from our eventual ill-fated and inevitable loss in the race against time.
The unattainable feeling of satisfaction forces us to settle for being content, and knowing this, our outlook is bleak. The sprinklings of hope which present themselves as stray glitter on the side of one’s face, or an apple that couldn’t possibly taste any better, are what keep us working nine to five, and thinking that watching a late night show on TV is better than a half-hour of sleeping though this life. But more, you’ll never taste all the flavors this world possesses, and what separates the two types of people here is who decides to gnash endlessly on forbidden fruit, and who are convinced that morals get you anywhere.
This has brought us to the fence. And you know its greener on the other side. Do something about that.
Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite. Or waiting around for Friday night or waiting perhaps for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil or a better break or a string of pearls or a pair of pants or a wig with curls or another chance. Everyone is just waiting. (Dr. Seuss)
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
It's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years. (Abe Lincoln)
Everything is a lie. Immediate digression from assumed topic.
Reasoning for something as being something to work for is ridiculous when its ultimately unachievable. You're just setting yourself up for failure. Its depressing, disgusting, and plain unhealthy. Get fucking smarter.
More frequently occupying my mind is the fantasy of independence. Senioritis, summer before senior year. How wonderful a feeling it must be to know that you rely on no one. However, though it is fantastic to know that you can fall back on your support, it is unsatisfactory. To manage my own life on my own terms is potentially the most settling accomplishment. And I'm not even one for goals and accomplishments. But then how do we judge ourselves? Nihilism.
A question I have for those grown-up and in the real world is: will the drama ever end? We teenagers think that we are in the real world, with our sex, drugs, our own blood smeared to justify our real world problems. I have little surety in what is considered real, but I have just as much authority to talk about these worlds as anyone. We have to break the bubble, don't we? The dome over what our worlds are now. Perhaps its just me, longing for change of scenery and to know more see more, to be fucking cultured. Thoughts? No one reads my blog. I wish people did.
The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference.
The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference.
The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference.
And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference.
(Elie Wiesel)
Reasoning for something as being something to work for is ridiculous when its ultimately unachievable. You're just setting yourself up for failure. Its depressing, disgusting, and plain unhealthy. Get fucking smarter.
More frequently occupying my mind is the fantasy of independence. Senioritis, summer before senior year. How wonderful a feeling it must be to know that you rely on no one. However, though it is fantastic to know that you can fall back on your support, it is unsatisfactory. To manage my own life on my own terms is potentially the most settling accomplishment. And I'm not even one for goals and accomplishments. But then how do we judge ourselves? Nihilism.
A question I have for those grown-up and in the real world is: will the drama ever end? We teenagers think that we are in the real world, with our sex, drugs, our own blood smeared to justify our real world problems. I have little surety in what is considered real, but I have just as much authority to talk about these worlds as anyone. We have to break the bubble, don't we? The dome over what our worlds are now. Perhaps its just me, longing for change of scenery and to know more see more, to be fucking cultured. Thoughts? No one reads my blog. I wish people did.
The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference.
The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference.
The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference.
And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference.
(Elie Wiesel)
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