| just playacting through life, i'm a transient being.
i want to feel, be, experience everything.
without everything, i am nothing. |
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| muted flourescence and an endless loop of sentimental numbness. our eyes are masks to our incompatible souls. juxtaposition as a whole is platitudinal; the juxtaposition of science and poetry. no, i am not one for science but numbers; adrenaline-laced, plummeting numbers embued with lyricsm. in their absence i drown in words, clear-cut and direct, intentionally conceived. artificial world, tell me who i am. a facsimile of a being; contrived lyrics or calculatedly philosophical musings. lie to me. lie, because i will never know the difference.
fuck. this doesn't come easily anymore, and my words lack the poignancy i used to encompass effortlessly.
out of practice and spurious; i have misplaced myself.
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| i don't write anymore. i eat and make idle chatter and recycle my old words. uncomfortably numb, i cannot find my voice; cannot even remember the soul-searing words that consumed me. i want to document it all-- the time when i was troubled, the time when i was deep, but i cannot and now i'm neither troubled nor deep, and journalism seems so straightforward and superficial. a starving artist is an inspired one and i'm not sure if its worth it to lose it all again. a gift or a curse? faceless world, incomprehensible mass of abstraction, you tell me.
i miss the lyricism and the tangled thoughts and the introspection and the thighs that repelled. my world is bloated, both literally and figuratively and i can't discern between happiness and comfortability. i've lost that feeling; i am one of them. i don't know how i feel about that.
should i come back? |
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| -seventeen today, finally.
-reading the unabridged journals of sylvia plath.
-dancing the border between solidity and transcendent detachment. |
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| grayscale suffocates
my idealistic notions
in this rainy june.
... am i back? possibly. but thoroughly uninspired. |
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