As you've been moving surely toward me
My soul has comforted and assured me
That in time my heart it will reward me
And that all will be revealed
So I've sat and I've watched an ice-age thaw
Are you the one that I've been waiting for?
Out of sorrow entire worlds have been built
Out of longing great wonders have been willed
They're only little tears, darling, let them spill
And lay your head upon my shoulder
Outside my window the world has gone to war
Are you the one that I've been waiting for?
I have spent an absurdly gothy day at home by myself. Moirae is most likely at his folks, and to my folks I am currently not speaking for reasons which shall remain unspecified. Instead I lay around the apartment in my bra and panties drinking the remainder of the absinthe, and watching my Interview with the Vampire LD. I dosed briefly and had bizarre wormwood-induced dreams. When I awoke, I spent a goodly amount of time examining the pattern of the grain in the picture frame hanging over our couch. This was followed by listening to Sisters of Mercy and Bauhaus while working my way painfully through more of De Profundis by Oscar Wilde.
That volume is painful to read. For those unfamilliar with it, it is essentialy a very long love letter that he wrote to his lover while he was in prison right before his death. It isn't hard to beleive that in Lord Alfred Douglas, Wilde saw his own distruction. It is a classic display of an addicitive personality- because in reality, one can become addicted to anything, including people. In fact I would say that I find it the easiest addiction to aquire, and probably the most difficult one to shake, as well as possibly being one of the most distructive to the human psyche.
This particular point is often clearly illustrated to me, not just through my own experience but in watching other people suffer over the same thing. This leads to a morbid fancy which is a unpardonable sin if I truly consider myself to be an artist- Love is pathos, a disease like alcoholism, and from which the withdrawl sysmptoms are paticularly foul to behold as they are to expereince. I humbly request a vaccine.
This is all very cynical, I'm aware. But really: I'm okay. I am. In spite of all these dreadful musings, I am perhaps happier now then I have been in years. My job is going well, and I have many wonderful friends. Those who have not known me long will not be enlightened as to the horrible state I spent the entire summer of '05 in.
Note to all humans within driving distance: I am not permitted to be alone or to drink AT ALL on the eve of July the 22nd. That will be the one year anniversary of my sister's passing.
So I have spent my entire day since arriving home in a near Lovecraftian state of agitated paranoia and vulgar morbidity boardering on catatonia at points. I do not consider it to have been a bad day, at all. Merely an odd one.
My soul has comforted and assured me
That in time my heart it will reward me
And that all will be revealed
So I've sat and I've watched an ice-age thaw
Are you the one that I've been waiting for?
Out of sorrow entire worlds have been built
Out of longing great wonders have been willed
They're only little tears, darling, let them spill
And lay your head upon my shoulder
Outside my window the world has gone to war
Are you the one that I've been waiting for?
I have spent an absurdly gothy day at home by myself. Moirae is most likely at his folks, and to my folks I am currently not speaking for reasons which shall remain unspecified. Instead I lay around the apartment in my bra and panties drinking the remainder of the absinthe, and watching my Interview with the Vampire LD. I dosed briefly and had bizarre wormwood-induced dreams. When I awoke, I spent a goodly amount of time examining the pattern of the grain in the picture frame hanging over our couch. This was followed by listening to Sisters of Mercy and Bauhaus while working my way painfully through more of De Profundis by Oscar Wilde.
That volume is painful to read. For those unfamilliar with it, it is essentialy a very long love letter that he wrote to his lover while he was in prison right before his death. It isn't hard to beleive that in Lord Alfred Douglas, Wilde saw his own distruction. It is a classic display of an addicitive personality- because in reality, one can become addicted to anything, including people. In fact I would say that I find it the easiest addiction to aquire, and probably the most difficult one to shake, as well as possibly being one of the most distructive to the human psyche.
This particular point is often clearly illustrated to me, not just through my own experience but in watching other people suffer over the same thing. This leads to a morbid fancy which is a unpardonable sin if I truly consider myself to be an artist- Love is pathos, a disease like alcoholism, and from which the withdrawl sysmptoms are paticularly foul to behold as they are to expereince. I humbly request a vaccine.
This is all very cynical, I'm aware. But really: I'm okay. I am. In spite of all these dreadful musings, I am perhaps happier now then I have been in years. My job is going well, and I have many wonderful friends. Those who have not known me long will not be enlightened as to the horrible state I spent the entire summer of '05 in.
Note to all humans within driving distance: I am not permitted to be alone or to drink AT ALL on the eve of July the 22nd. That will be the one year anniversary of my sister's passing.
So I have spent my entire day since arriving home in a near Lovecraftian state of agitated paranoia and vulgar morbidity boardering on catatonia at points. I do not consider it to have been a bad day, at all. Merely an odd one.
VIEW 20 of 20 COMMENTS
elizathetroll:
So, there goes AIM, that bloated, intrusive piece of crap. It managed to get itself booted in record time. I knew there was a good reason I hated AOL. Sorry, no chatting on that channel!
fenris23:
Mmmm Absinthe, I need to get me more of that.