“My heart is beating like it’s lonely, like there’s nothing else inside of me.”
Junot Díaz, 'This Is How You Lose Her'
"Its easy to know what you want to say, but not to say it."
Mario Vargas Llosa
"Se escribe para llenar vacíos, para tomarse desquites contra la realidad, contra las circunstancias"
Mario Vargas Llosa
My inspiration is coming at five ideas a second and seven songs a minute. My computer can't keep up. My browsers have fatigue. So many open tabs. I've hacked my brain and created a sort of momentary synthetic hypomania. That's in addition to the obscene amount of Red Bull in my system, probably enough for a heart attack. I have to ride the wave as quickly as I can before it washes away. The posts have been multiplying like little Gremlins today1. I'm going to finish this which I've been writing for a while in my head ( which means the better more graceful parts are probably gone b/c I didn't write them down ). I actually wrote something along these lines, a long text post, between May and August, in small parts, but it never looked good once I was sober so I eventually deleted it. I kept thinking I could salvage parts of it until I gave up. I woke up on the I don't give a fuck side of the bed today.There's some sort of filter that comes off during my curent state. Everything goes.
I've tried rebooting myself so many times and it just doesn't work. "what I am is what I am, cause I does what I does" as Fiona Apple said. I'm not on some quest to find myself. I'm just stuck with who I am and annoyed with what I can't change. Irritated and full of Regret. I know who I am: a thematic tome of unrelenting desire and failed romances. I'm very hard on myself.
Sometimes I find it offensive that I need anti-depressants to live. As if there's a sort of Natural Law that says we should all be Happy that does not apply to me and chemistry has to keep me breathing. A synthetic existance. Mostly it leaves me bored, with hints of quiet desperation.
There is currently no girl, no woman, no Romantic Interest. Only Lustful daydreams of a mistress. I'm a blank canvass with a drip of red pain falling halfway down the middle. And this painting is stuck on a wall.
I was telling the most Lolita girl I know how much I wish I had a photogenic female friend in this city to take my own photos for posts on here. All my girls, they get married. All the nymphets are now older and having babies.
Andy is right. I don't want what I can't have anymore. This is a much practical stance.
Well, I'm off to write my first short story in years. It's called "The sexual frustrations of a man without a serial number"
1 written between 9.20 and 9.22
“Toska - noun /ˈtō-skə/ - Russian word roughly translated as sadness, melancholia, lugubriousness. No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”
New fucking York, 2009. That's the last time I was happy. That's a lot of years of not being happy for those keeping up. We ( and by we I mean myself, Colleen , Adam & Jessica ) were on our way to the The Highline when we ran into these busts being junked and we took them and had fun with them all day. I miss my east coast friends tremendously.
I love talking to my Muse. She seems to know just when to call and lift up my spirits. I just adore her to no end.
“…I see nothing for the treatment of my misery but the melancholy and very local palliative of articulate art.”
My birthday is coming up tomorrow. I'm tired of getting older.
I lost a friend 3 years ago because of this blog. I was thinking about her and then a few hours later I got this fortune.
It's a rare day, when it all sort of comes together like this. This morning I decided my best course of action would be to move back home. Later on I saw this panel in Dr Manhattan #1, and it all made me think of this song:
Baby Names I like
- Arya Anastasia Luna
- Alexander Atlas Luna
My Translation: " I wish I could talk to you in kisses. Then I would achive my necessity of you. Also I've dreamed of you, lazy and cloudy dreams. Maybe I remember you more sweet, better, more beautiful than you are, but I miss you. I have a fever, nervous, cold !ah! I need the warmth of your affection that I've forgotten a bit, if I knew I was going to kiss you, if I knew i was going to kiss you tomorrow, I would sleep in tranquility. You are my last hope...Understand, Your job is to forgive me. Everything is made up with the savage affection I have. I'm invaded by a mortal weakness, and absolute nihilism. I have so much happiness that we will pass another year of our lives together. You don't know, brat, how much I love you. I miss you more than bread and water. "
“In spite of everything I loved you, and will go on loving you—on my knees, with my shoulders drawn back, showing my heels to the headsman and straining my goose neck—even then. And afterwards—perhaps most of all afterwards—I shall love you, and one day we shall have a real, all-embracing explanation, and then perhaps we shall somehow fit together, you and I, and turn ourselves in such a way that we form one pattern, and solve the puzzle: draw a line from point A to point B…without looking, or, without lifting the pencil…or in some other way…we shall connect the points, draw the line, and you and I shall form that unique design for which I yearn.”
It's that day in which the whole internet becomes tired and repetitious about weed. I'm not one for it, I don't like smoking (it's gradual suicide). I'm more a pills guy, and after a spell of debilitating depression I'm finally clawing my way up out of it and I've run out of Fucks to give about anything.
There are times in my life that go a little like this: I open my heart, my heart is soon after stepped on by nine inch heels. Feeling unloved is a fever that I wish would just take me.
I don't know why sometimes I think I can forgive when in fact I can't forget.
+ Rachel Yamagata - Even If I Don't.live
I can't think of a song that better pin points where my heart is at right now than the above song by the lovely Miss Yamagata. I thought this other song below was also close but then I realized more than halfway into it that it could actually be from The Girl towards Me.
+ Rachael Yamagata - You Won't Let Me.live
: I don’t want you if I’m going to have to feel this pain. I don’t
want you, or rather I don’t want these feelings of wanting you
more than anything else in the world. If having these feelings
which you blithely call love means most of the days I live through
are spent in wanting that which can’t be relieved: this is no
fucking way to live and I won’t stand for it.
: I have to erase you out of my life so I can keep in living.
no matter how passionate no matter how perfect no matter
how deep love, it fades and there’s nothing. I won’t stand for it.
: I’ve never felt anything such as this in my life. No. Those were
your words. I’m too tired to speak now, my darling.
: I refuse to give up a love which I believe’s good. I believe it’s
good because it’s not linear, just an obsession; but calm, rich,
Acker, Kathy. Don Quixote. New York: Grove Press, 1986.
I had opted to be quiet. I had nothing nice to say. why be hurtful? Imagine how I felt when you spewed all the venom I held back right at me . If your goal was to constantly frustrate me, you win. I can't fucking find you. I've come to learn that you know how to torture me like the best of them.
“And then black night. The blackness was sublime.
I felt distributed through space and time:
One foot upon a mountaintop, one hand
Under the pebbles of a panting strand,
One ear in Italy, one eye in Spain,
In caves, my blood, and in the stars, my brain.”
Canto Two, Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov/ reluctantly subject to your disposal...