OCT 12
"e:x-is*te-nc:e"
once the box was opened
pandora hid inside
the guilt she felt
ripped her apart
she closed the lids to hide the screams
she asphyxiated, then died
we're not innocent
we can't hide from our guilt
bloodshot
and puffy eyes
won't make death feel sorry for us
OCT. 9
The WordPerfect file stares me in the eye and demands action.
It wants to feel the bleeding of my fingertips on the keyboard. The carpal tunnel syndrome aching in my wrists. The file demands a sacrifice.
I used to write out of anger, heartbreak, or basically to instill any emotion I could in the person who inevitably inspired me to write.
Do any of you have someone who drives you insane at their very name? Sometimes you're prepared for it, but sometimes you just hear it being called in the background and your very skin begins to peel and your heart breaks from your chest and splatters warmly against your brand-new t-shirt?
I want to write because I know I can surpass everything they've accomplished with only a minimal amount of work. All the years of hard work they suffered through to make themselves who they are today can no longer be shoved in my face every chance they get. Because the fat and lazy son of a bitch can take them out of their happiness coma simply by getting the ambition to make progress in WordPerfect.
(Q: are they doing the shoving or am I thinking they're shoving due to repressed self-depreciation due to my lack of progress in the last seven years?)
I can be something so great just by writing something to match my potential. Something to gain me popularity, prosperity, and notoriety. Something to take me away.
Maybe I should concentrate on myself and not on my work. Or maybe my work with create a new self.
Yes, an embryo of new Ryan. A Ryan stirring in yolk, being reformed by the very fabric of his DNA into something stronger, more powerful; something attractive both physically and emotionally. Something flawless. A newborn child who I can learn to love again.
I need to do something.
Because something needs to love me bad or I might rot.
"e:x-is*te-nc:e"
once the box was opened
pandora hid inside
the guilt she felt
ripped her apart
she closed the lids to hide the screams
she asphyxiated, then died
we're not innocent
we can't hide from our guilt
bloodshot
and puffy eyes
won't make death feel sorry for us
OCT. 9
The WordPerfect file stares me in the eye and demands action.
It wants to feel the bleeding of my fingertips on the keyboard. The carpal tunnel syndrome aching in my wrists. The file demands a sacrifice.
I used to write out of anger, heartbreak, or basically to instill any emotion I could in the person who inevitably inspired me to write.
Do any of you have someone who drives you insane at their very name? Sometimes you're prepared for it, but sometimes you just hear it being called in the background and your very skin begins to peel and your heart breaks from your chest and splatters warmly against your brand-new t-shirt?
I want to write because I know I can surpass everything they've accomplished with only a minimal amount of work. All the years of hard work they suffered through to make themselves who they are today can no longer be shoved in my face every chance they get. Because the fat and lazy son of a bitch can take them out of their happiness coma simply by getting the ambition to make progress in WordPerfect.
(Q: are they doing the shoving or am I thinking they're shoving due to repressed self-depreciation due to my lack of progress in the last seven years?)
I can be something so great just by writing something to match my potential. Something to gain me popularity, prosperity, and notoriety. Something to take me away.
Maybe I should concentrate on myself and not on my work. Or maybe my work with create a new self.
Yes, an embryo of new Ryan. A Ryan stirring in yolk, being reformed by the very fabric of his DNA into something stronger, more powerful; something attractive both physically and emotionally. Something flawless. A newborn child who I can learn to love again.
I need to do something.
Because something needs to love me bad or I might rot.
aaardvark:
Thus is the way of life 