Things slowly falling into place like so many leaves from our deciduous trees.
I got my car back from the garage.
A bit of missed freedom, tires spinning in the air and upside down.
Messages not returned. Never a good sign. Imaginary.
Is this the silence of being so misunderstood? Imaginary.
What is ugly with-in me. (?) Imaginary.
Imaginary letters, imaginary e-mails, imaginary voice messages, imaginary voices.
I find it hard to lie when I am lying to myself.
Pithy maxims of the deranged.
I need some scotch.
I've discovered, much to my horror, that I'm lonely.
This is the central theme.
Do you find this as funny as me?
19th Century British poet W.B.:
"Excess of joy weeps, excess of sorrow laughs."
Maybe it will pass.
I hope so.
In my isolation, king of masturbation.
I listened to a cd of Beethoven string quartets today and felt the glimmer of a tear develope.
Half way through Don Quixote, again.
I picked up a book on Zen, discount half truths in the bargain bin.
That kind of numbness must be bliss.
People see me struggling and suggest I should compromise. I disagree (but with a hidden hollow heart).
I know that this email seems a bit gloomy, but I'm not in any kind of serious suicidal mood. Still, I've had this idea stuck in my head.
Suicide rates among men and women are about equal. Fact is, though, that women are more likely to give a go at a suicide attempt, but men are more likely to go through with it succesfully. What does this mean?
Are women more depressed? More likely to give a small violent gesture as a cry for help, or is it just simply that men are better at killing?
Am I the only one who who sees that Louis Armstrong's song "What a Wonderful World" is really bittersweet?
Jacked off dreams wasted in this desert,
all dries to dust and dies.
Perhaps tommorrow I will dig up Patrick Stewart's Christmas Carol. I could use some inspiration. Right now Scrooge would be a bump up for me.
Hopefully my face won't crack when I do this:
Fuck. If it were not for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.null
I got my car back from the garage.
A bit of missed freedom, tires spinning in the air and upside down.
Messages not returned. Never a good sign. Imaginary.
Is this the silence of being so misunderstood? Imaginary.
What is ugly with-in me. (?) Imaginary.
Imaginary letters, imaginary e-mails, imaginary voice messages, imaginary voices.
I find it hard to lie when I am lying to myself.
Pithy maxims of the deranged.
I need some scotch.
I've discovered, much to my horror, that I'm lonely.
This is the central theme.
Do you find this as funny as me?
19th Century British poet W.B.:
"Excess of joy weeps, excess of sorrow laughs."
Maybe it will pass.
I hope so.
In my isolation, king of masturbation.
I listened to a cd of Beethoven string quartets today and felt the glimmer of a tear develope.
Half way through Don Quixote, again.
I picked up a book on Zen, discount half truths in the bargain bin.
That kind of numbness must be bliss.
People see me struggling and suggest I should compromise. I disagree (but with a hidden hollow heart).
I know that this email seems a bit gloomy, but I'm not in any kind of serious suicidal mood. Still, I've had this idea stuck in my head.
Suicide rates among men and women are about equal. Fact is, though, that women are more likely to give a go at a suicide attempt, but men are more likely to go through with it succesfully. What does this mean?
Are women more depressed? More likely to give a small violent gesture as a cry for help, or is it just simply that men are better at killing?
Am I the only one who who sees that Louis Armstrong's song "What a Wonderful World" is really bittersweet?
Jacked off dreams wasted in this desert,
all dries to dust and dies.
Perhaps tommorrow I will dig up Patrick Stewart's Christmas Carol. I could use some inspiration. Right now Scrooge would be a bump up for me.
Hopefully my face won't crack when I do this:
Fuck. If it were not for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.null
I wish I could visit crazy fairyland, some place under a hill, maybe, vast and hidden.
I wrote a story about this place when I was about 10. In the story I (or the heroine) found it whilst riding a white horse.