the following combination of letters comes from my Evernote, all from around a year ago. My past is now yours to wade through with smug looks, knowing that at least your not me.
So it goes.
Everything feels heavy. Everyday is some sort of battle with a fog, slowly solidifying around me, slowly halting progress. Twenty is too young for daily existential crisis’s. Yet here I am. Why why why why why can’t my head shut the fuck up? I feel as if uncertainty is the only thing I can count on. I feel as if despite me being better than others, I can’t communicate with them. I forget sarcasm requires inflection. I forget other people need you to paint the whole picture for them. I forget the lenses I look through only belong to me. I don’t agree with that. Other people have inhabited this soul before. No, this soul has inhabited other bodies before.
I’ve always been this lonely.
Femme fatale. I would be ok with a girlfriend who ended up killing me. What could be more romantic, tell me of a better fucking bit.
Something in the way she moves. I climbed a mountain to eat the sun.
This place breeds my total envy and contempt. Double-sided blade stabbing my gut, heart, eyes. It’s mostly the people. I refuse to accept the idea that normal is in fact, normal. I refuse to accept that I don’t fit in, at least partially, at least my guise is convincing. Why am I not Buddhist and Marxist? Why do we name everything?
My connection to stories and the devices that provide them is the closest I’ve come to love. Things are absolutely meaningless until we attach sentimentality to them. I chose stories because they operate within a set of rules, and the first rule is break all the rules. Because freedom has never been more fully captured than in prison bars of words and film structures. Stories highlight the importance of life, of living, of humanity, of death. They encapsulate everything it is to be human. They are philosophical tools to carve our brains and consciousness into desirable, lovable, admirable things.
Sleeping naked is the best sleep. Vaginas should get better animal representation. Fuck beaver and pussy cat. Fox. That vagina was vulpine. Although pussy is a fun word.
I’m more enamored with other peoples love for me than the people themselves. Their acceptance of me is greater than whatever they are. That’s true sociopath egocentric behavior. Some citizen Kane shit.