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(no subject) [Aug. 8th, 2009|01:41 am]
I wait on life like a tender, trying to master the points of existing, but I doubt it ever turns in the right direction, but maybe it works. My mind doesn't seem to cloud over as it did before in new situations, intent on creating my personality to be intangible and silent.  It's not like that so far but maybe it's because the people are different, and I know them better. But I seem to feel pretty laid back, and my mindset is more present than I thought it would be, so last night's feeling didn't quite leave and, I feel like I could get my thoughts in order better. And nothing really momentous happened, expect for me experiencing a moment as I would if I was high, but well, I wasn't, and I haven't ever tried it, but the experience felt the same. Metaphorically, like I could press at a point in the universe and have the dimensions fold over me, quantum physics at it's best and most sci-fi, I suppose. Be stuck inside your head, watching stuff from a distance, but have the ability to go and change and direct the surroundings of the TV and it's characters. I see angles better, sharper, lined and direct with mayhemed geometry, bright and sharp as a laundry store's lights (to use the place I was in, and the way the lights are so very white, and how the room was flooded with it, while outside it was dark and the boardwalk's lamplights soft and drowsy, like lanterns, hazy around and the aura one of a waking dream.) The contrast was absolutely delightful, and sunshine_mort got the brink of my late-night ramblings, but really this circular life, these behavioral patterns, and the side to side parallels of our parents bonding and the whole question of will that be my future?

It terrifies me a bit. I, I would like to be boundless, an adventure in myself, like tealighttrees wrote in this entry and it was just, very alluring, and one of my friends of whom I showed it too did say, but it is all of us and I suppose our lives themselves are an adventure, but it feels a lot more constricted and latched in, and there is always things to worry and need care for. I suppose this is why I write, roleplay. I need some characters to live the parts of my life that I simply cannot, and live through them and my writing of them. Or even read, each book is a world to me, one to visit, and always have the ability to visit again and again.

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(no subject) [Aug. 6th, 2009|12:58 am]
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Just. How do I help make it stop?
I don't know what to do. And I can't say anything that's not vague because. Fuck.

I can't even not be angry. But I'm not stupid. There's just. No way to help. I want to keep saying the word fuck until something changes but I really can't. Because, fuck, it's useless, and I'm really, really addicted to swearing. But fuck I feel so useless in the situation.

I have a secret journal on a different site, and I sound more poetic there, but I usually only put stuff that I just can't say around, in full view.

But this is only a week old, and not secret at all.

Somewhere on rainbow-kite wings and stretched out designs with sequins and buttons and just sparkles and glitter and a really heavy hand of poker cards, and everything would be perfect if everyone got drunk and no one remembered anything and it’d feel like something cut off into something forgotten but painfully alive – the headache thrumming beneath your eyes.

Maybe just a way to swallow it up, everyone’s experiences and smiles and pains and keep them all, juggling them against your gut with expressions flitting past your face – as open as a mime’s, and just as quick to change and turn and hide; those mimes, silence be ridiculous, but, if speaking is too much of a pain, and ridiculous comes with the costume and the face paint and the smiles; similar simpler things, hide underneath your bed sheets

Something to drink wine in, crystal perfect clear cut diamonds, eyes large and reflecting, seeing yourself ;

It’s more a drag of the cigarette, the smoke hazed air of a black and white movie, set upon the apocalyptic scenery – that made him want a camera, film, a cast, a baton to use as a director’s stick, a chorus to start up, an orchestra to create and build up with nothing but imagination and ideas, something to make real ; everyone craved to be everything.

I think bandom entrances me because those groups, all of them, interconnected and always together and that one story of summer haunts, days that repeat themselves always the last day, always the last moment ; I love what they do there, I love I love I love the connection and knowing everyone you love and no rules and insanity and anything, anything, anything at all, bonfires, parties, being able to take drugs and booze and wake up with no bad results, just, just, that freedom that really means your suck, but, do you even age? Oh, what a dream to be captured in, over and over and over again, it’s terrifying.


That story is quite amazing actually. (Summer Haunts By littlerhymes) I have a secret lust and want for immortality. Like the man in the movie The_Fountain or like what Jack Sparrow wants and what Peter Pan has. Neverland sounds amazing.

I should post one of my journal entries and claim it as a story. But I've just admitted it, so it would be obvious.

Maybe I want it to be.

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(no subject) [Jul. 27th, 2009|04:31 pm]
I'm not much of anything. I have bubble baths with friends and create water fights and swim in the rain while people chase themselves away from the sand with their towels. I sit and try to drink in life because I try to feel, or just experience. Life's just a series of moments. I don't understand why I need a journal, but I can get used to a public one if I try. I'm hardheaded in my beliefs and my favorite things, and I'll argue and I'll fight and I'll be as human as I can. But it's, I'm stating the obvious to myself for others to read? And what, smile at me and my attempts?

I don't know how to talk here. I could quote some poetry from Blood Lotus, I should. Maybe I'll post some to those communities I've joined just to stalk. I can make some use out of this journal. I should become active in a fandom. But, as much as I want to, I really don't. I can write reviews of books for myself, for whoever reads whatever. I can do my own writing. I'm more comfortable with deviantART but I don't write there either. Eh, things will eventually smooth themseleves out. The internet's important afterall, it's widespread, gathering, everyone in your pockets the only way they can be. I like an audiance, but. Still. Ha, try, try again. I think I'll reinvent myself on deviantART all over again. Clean up some of my writing and start on the haiku's I've promised to do. I had plans. I wanted to break into a spa. Mudfights galore!

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(no subject) [Jun. 20th, 2009|12:56 am]
I really don't know what to say about today.  I want to kinda worry about whycan'tItalkwitheveryoneIwanttoo. Because really, those problems are pissing me off, and fuck , I thought they were gone. Reasons for other reasons, they're both unhelpful but not as foolish as they should be. But I was in a place I didn't even know existed, and I find that awesome for the self-explanatory.

Public journals, you make me speak in code.

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