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Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Responding.
I love you too.
I am sorry about your heart.
Those have a tendency to drown,
don't let that happen please.
I am sorry about your heart.
Those have a tendency to drown,
don't let that happen please.
I don't know how to speak of my self today.
If I have some sort of unfortunate characteristics that I will muse about later,
maybe next year, maybe tomorrow, I don't know them today.
It is hard to put my self in a package on the days I want to.
to write about my self and my feelings as if I were outside of them.
Misery often catalyzes some sort of writing frenzy.
It allows for me to forfeit my emotion to a page and gently ease my self into a stupor like oblivion.
Today is not like that, tonight actually is not like that.
I am unclear as to how I feel in between dry coughs and hysteric cries.
I have been trying to suffocate my insanity with reading Vonnegut's "Mother Night", as I attempt to recognize my relatively stable mindedness, at least in comparison.
This does little for me though, I still shake with emotion no matter how lowly I know it makes me feel.
There is a deep pit in my stomach tonight, one that convulses me to rock back an forth in slow methodic motions, similar to a sickening boat ride.
I have gotten up from my sobbing many times now, thinking I was going heave weight from my body.
I am sick, it seems, from sadness.
I have felt this way before but there are such long terms of absence from this feeling it is easy to forget about.
In fact I think most people are eager to forget about this sinking rock.
The weirdest part about what I am writing now, is that I have gotten up to write this about a hundred times in the last few hours.
My hysteria began about three hours ago, for reasons I am yet to accept.
But I did not want to write about the words that you see. I wanted to write about something I still don't quite yet comprehend, I think that is why most people think I am a poet of sorts.
It's most likely because I have an absurdly small vocabulary for which I am very embarrassed about.
I also can not spell.
But this has nothing to do with anything.
These are just truths that I feel you should know.
"We are what we pretend to be so we must be careful about what we pretend to be."
-Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
My roommate just came back home.
Suddenly I am as normal as can be.
Maybe quieter. Many understand me as a comical sort.
Never stop smiling. Only yell when it's sarcasm.
I am sorry my lady, non compos mentis.
Goodnight.
If I have some sort of unfortunate characteristics that I will muse about later,
maybe next year, maybe tomorrow, I don't know them today.
It is hard to put my self in a package on the days I want to.
to write about my self and my feelings as if I were outside of them.
Misery often catalyzes some sort of writing frenzy.
It allows for me to forfeit my emotion to a page and gently ease my self into a stupor like oblivion.
Today is not like that, tonight actually is not like that.
I am unclear as to how I feel in between dry coughs and hysteric cries.
I have been trying to suffocate my insanity with reading Vonnegut's "Mother Night", as I attempt to recognize my relatively stable mindedness, at least in comparison.
This does little for me though, I still shake with emotion no matter how lowly I know it makes me feel.
There is a deep pit in my stomach tonight, one that convulses me to rock back an forth in slow methodic motions, similar to a sickening boat ride.
I have gotten up from my sobbing many times now, thinking I was going heave weight from my body.
I am sick, it seems, from sadness.
I have felt this way before but there are such long terms of absence from this feeling it is easy to forget about.
In fact I think most people are eager to forget about this sinking rock.
The weirdest part about what I am writing now, is that I have gotten up to write this about a hundred times in the last few hours.
My hysteria began about three hours ago, for reasons I am yet to accept.
But I did not want to write about the words that you see. I wanted to write about something I still don't quite yet comprehend, I think that is why most people think I am a poet of sorts.
It's most likely because I have an absurdly small vocabulary for which I am very embarrassed about.
I also can not spell.
But this has nothing to do with anything.
These are just truths that I feel you should know.
"We are what we pretend to be so we must be careful about what we pretend to be."
-Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
My roommate just came back home.
Suddenly I am as normal as can be.
Maybe quieter. Many understand me as a comical sort.
Never stop smiling. Only yell when it's sarcasm.
I am sorry my lady, non compos mentis.
Goodnight.
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