trust, or how to calm a grieving heart

There is something very peaceful about holding the hand of a boy for whom you feel nothing but the purest friendship, the most intense sympathy, the greatest care. I leave you with this, I will be back on Saturday.

hiatus

I have been in this dreamy state of mind of the late. I'm am mostly tired, sometimes manic, rarely excited. I am living change like a break-up, never straying from my comfort zone. Everyday I hope I'm getting stronger, but really it's only this inertia digging deeper into my mind. I am embracing the same passiveness I usually abhor and avoid at all costs. Where am I? I think of a million things to write to you, but I forget them instantly, left with only a slight twinge of frustration. But not even this will free me from sloth. I usually choose jealousy.

Where am I now? Where am I heading? Constantly, I make what I think are brilliant allusions to french playrights, and they go unnoticed. Why do I bother? I usually choose to ponder upon these questions, but now, I find myself annoyed and slightly bored. Somebody needs to get me out of this. No. I need to get myself out of this.

This is going nowhere.

this is a little funny

Would you like to hear something funny?

When I do not do as I am told, my mother forbids me to eat. Isn't that grand? Isn't it hilarious? Oh the irony!

Truly I have gone mad.

abysmal, or the infinite capacity to feel for

Yesterday I purchased The Collected Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe. This morning, I woke up with a knot in my throat and needles in my knees. Presently I am in hiding, in my nest, contemplating the beauty of nature as I watch the kitten sleep.

Last week was the end of an era in my life. So many people look forward to change.

I can handle change. But not when I'm leaving. Not if what I love becomes a memory. I can't handle memories. It kills me to see them fade.

I was born with a hole in my chest. Maybe we're all born this way. Or maybe I am a mutant. Who knows.

I fill this abyss with people and places and words and dreams. People who leave me, places I have to leave, words that lose all meaning and dreams and desires that turn to venom. I am constantly falling in love with a million different things; a tree, a bird, a lonely face, a sentence, a scent, a tense, a twinkle, a speck of dust. Always I am in love, because it gives meaning to my life and purpose to my achievements. I need those things to live for. Because I cannot live for myself.

Some people live selflessly, and that is why they care for others. I am selfish to the core, because I care to save myself. It's natural for me, a reflex, instinctive.

What if I feel too much compassion?

What if I'm only crazy because I need to feel everything for everyone?

What if I

sickness, or how my body is poison(ned)

My body is poison, distortion, contusion, implosion. There are too many drugs rushing through my veins, racing through my arteries and clouding up my mind.



I am too much, I am more than I can handle. Yet I am not enough to matter. After 100km of biking, my body failed me, again. I cannot follow anything through, am I a dead end?




I pretend I am fine, I pretend I am whole, like so many of you poor broken things. I pretend I am sane while I read 6th century english poetry, in a tree, sucking on bits of ice. But really I am trying to lose myself in the beauty of what I read. Really I am only smiling because I cut the inside of my mouth on a shard of ice. To hurt yourself is not passive.

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We are all sick, Humanity is sick. Now we can choose to deny it, to become limp, mindless lumps of bones and adipose tissue. I have chosen to confront my reality, my existence, and feel the poison in me. It is what I do every time I post. And it is what you all do when you choose to confront your inner demons, to admit they exist. Admitting is not accepting. Isn't this admirable? Isn't this right?


Yes, we are all poison(ned). Poison for ourselves, poison for those we dislike, and poison for those we love. But we are still human, and I am still human. Because I still think, and question, and write. Because I love you all.

mortuary, or how the world is only death

That is a fallacy. The word death implies some sort of action, whereas existence is passive.

I live in a world of corpses. Of still-borns. I am the only person on earth.

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Today I saw a bird run up the roof of an abandonned house, and I thought, how odd. It was the most pertinent thought in the last week of my existence. Because really nothing else could be more true. Except for the rain.

I don't want to exist. I don't want to be. I don't want to starve. I want more than this passiveness.

And they wonder why death is so alluring.