novy

I want to write so much right now.
I want to see flames appear on the glass of your monitor as you read this.
Everything seems like such a sick joke; and we've all heard this one before.
I have been in a contemplative mood in the last hour.
One phone call was all it took.
Your ideals are so false. Fuck ambition. Humans shouldn't need ambition to survive. Work to eat, eat to live, work to live, live to die, work to die. Everything is transitive, and this property breeds futility.
As I sit here and rip my fingernails off at the imperfections; I try so hard to conjure up something fiery and controversial to say, but the words are not there. The thoughts are there in red, orange, yellow and black, plain as day..but they won't manifest themselves.
Actually.
That's just like what I want to write. The beauty is there, the love, if love even exists, the warmth, the creativity, the articulateness, it's all there; but it won't manifest itself. No, because it's all enslaved by false perceptions of what is right.
What I need is a release.
and I didn't have enough Guinness left over to remove myself from that toxin called sobriety and step into the purity that is being drunk.
Maybe love could be that release; but I'm losing faith that the type of love I need even exists anymore.
and who the fuck are you to tell me that I'm a waste, you don't even have half a fucking clue what goes on.
But no, it's okay. You'll see it in my eyes the next time, that I am sure of..and you will know. Our eyes will meet, and in that moment, you will be hit with a wave of it all, and it will knock the wind out of you.
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Anger is such a beautiful emotion.