It's a song I guess. I mean, the moments. The moments are like a song. The mind is like a wave? The song isn't ending. I'm not sure how to say that the world isn't ending, when it sometimes feels like it is. The world isn't what it used to be, is it? The song doesn't end, but the words do. The universe is the song, and the words are our lives, I suppose. I'm not really sure. Isn't it odd to think that maybe we aren't going to live forever? I'm not sure what to do with the knowledge that I'm not immortal. I want to be immortal. I'm so afraid of dying. It's like shooting a whale. Dying, I mean.
If to-morrow means nothing, and might not ever come, stop thinking about to-morrow. Life's short and meaningless, sure, but does it make you feel better to mope about it? Read a book. Play a game. Watch a movie. Play outside. See the woods. Examine a tree. Play with a puppy.
What is it about that idea that people have such a hard time with?
the koan: the life without pain belongs to the person who feels pain; the life of endless pain belongs to the person who feels no pain
so that's what enlightenment feels like...
So. I had a charming flashback yesterday.
Woman of broken glass, thus I declare myself; God as my witness.
Always I wish to see she who is kindly and decent and loving,
Yet I see still there is part of me staring at mirrors and seeing
someone who takes what she wants and does not look back; lies and abandons,
nary a care for the screams and the shrieks that are sounding so loudly.
Such is the life of a woman who stares at a mirror and sees a
maze of a thousand truths, faces, and voices obscuring her own truth.
This is the forest primeval! The deafening tones of the voices
screaming at me for the crimes that are indistinct in the twilight, so
shrouding my mind and destroying the things that I thought I once knew as
True and eternal; how foolish! How naive I was! I see now.
Woman of broken glass: thus I resign myself, God as my witness.
the sun stands still
over a city
and brightly colored cars pass by
some on the streets, some in the sky
music blares from a window
and colors swirl through the air
matching the sounds
a man walks past
he's wearing a hat
he hasn't a face
or a body for that matter
but he walks by nonetheless
and nods politely
or tips his hat
it's hard to tell the difference
your best friend is holding your hand
they are smiling
and they are happy
you cannot remember the last time you saw them so happy
and they nod to the man
because they have no hat to tip
Hnn. What is it that makes it there? What is it that makes it me? What is it that keeps me from them and them from me and this from there and that? Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck take it away out not here. Who is this that there? Who are you them me? But it's not, is it, it's not that, who you are, who we are, we are we are we are listen to me it's not fair who are you I want to know.
When I was 13 or so, I pretty regularly courted men thirty or forty years my senior. It was thrilling, and fun, and, most importantly to me, made me feel alive in a time where I felt like I was dying inside. They weren't great men, they weren't great lovers, and they certainly weren't particularly intelligent. But hey, when you're 13 and your definition of love is defined by getting fucked, it's not a bad life to get treated at a lovely restaurant or given gifts by a man more than twice your age. And honestly? I still look fondly on some of them.
My life is standing still while I try to reconcile my past with my present. Who am I? I cannot be defined by what happened to me- but how do I come to terms with it? How can I? The more I try to confront it and face it, the more it hurts. I know it gets worse before it gets better, and I have to push through- but when the pain starts to get unbearable, it's damned easy to forget that.
It's all so strange, sometimes. Sometimes I look around and I feel like everything around me is just some vast illusion. Sometimes I wonder if anyone else is real. More often, I wonder if I am real.
so anyway more and more i just wanna get high and get fucked. gimme some weed and a ton of condoms and a ton of horny guys with big uncut cocks and I'll suck them and fuck them and be a fucking slave, just get me my fucking weed and i'll do whatever the fuck you want because it's the only fucking cure i have for this fucking shit. just die fucking die go away get away get away get out of my fucking head get the fuck out get out get out get out get out fucking die leave me the fuck alone shut the fuck up fuck fuck fuck
It's getting worse, not better. It's getting harder, not easier. The screaming gets worse and worse and I keep having these feelings that feel so foreign to me. Sometimes it's hard to remember that nobody else can hear it. Sometimes I can hardly hear myself speak over it. I've been good at not raising my voice to hear over it, but that's difficult. It's like trying to talk over music that is just too loud. But instead of music, it's more like I hear hell.
I'm tired. Tired as fuck. I've got a fucking migraine, and it won't go away. The screams are loud and I've been feeling a lovely urge to kill someone. That last one doesn't feel like me, but whatever. I keep fantasizing about various activities like slitting someone's throat, smashing someone's head with a sledgehammer, flaying someone alive... that sort of thing.
The more I try to face my memory head on, the more misery and hate I feel. When I think about it all, it's like the gates that keep all the rage start to weaken. It's not nice.
Life is okay. It's been loud in my head, but then, it usually is. I'm a little bit tired but that's because I've been doing some work. My dog is happy and healthy and I love him. My boyfriend is healthy and usually happy and I love him more than I love my dog.
I've been talking more to the cute translady, and hopefully we'll get to meet sometime soon. It'll be nice to have somebody facefuck me. I am.... REALLY horny. Especially after the Boy tied me up, pushed me over the bathroom counter, whipped me, fucked me with a vibrator, then kicked me in the side when I fell over.
I am very smart and very pretty and I should not leave myself logged in on my boyfriend's computer, especially when he is six hours away and can get up to mischief without me seeing :)
Last night I got high as hell. It felt very, very good, and quieted the screams down nicely. They're back now that I'm sober, of course, but I had a beautifully quiet night, with nary a nightmare to be found. Speaking of screams, ZeeBoy wants me to name them (collectively, I suppose) Rachel. I suppose Rachel is the name Legion took when they transitioned?
HERE NOW BOIS SEE HERE. WE CAN'T GO WHALING BECAUSE THE WHALES ALL ASCENDED TO HEAVEN! I VOTE WE BUSY OURSELVES WITH THE MONOLITHIC COUNTRY OF AFRICA. HEAR HEAR!