||[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.