money sucks
money troubles again, only from extremely poor planning. ill be fine, my rent is about to be halfed for a little while.
also, i cut off aol...they'll stop my account when my free service runs out in the middle of the month.
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at some point you must realize that you will not be growing any taller. you will not become tighter or more fully shouldered. your life will become ever-increasingly expensive despite all protest, and the same hands that keep you from freedom have a grasp on those you love, so that your escape would mean their contrictions would increase in intensity. at some point you no longer know everything, and are increasingly likely (should you avoid major religious affiliation) to admit to knowing nothing.
day by day, you will hunch ever more crooked, ever further conveying ditraction and distance. at some point, sex is less the pumping of truth in your veins and more the steady beat of breathing. at some point, your dick will not stay hard for hours without medical assistance. at some point you must test yourself with stronger brew and more vicious comparisons...but at no point are you fully torn from self critique. at no point will the damp touch of doubt chase finally away from the back of spiked membranes in your mind. at no point do things stop.
at no point will movie stars and erotic artists be truly mundane or 'just like you.' at no point at all will you stop searching for reference points to compare your choices and behavior to. 'tyler durden smokes' will be replaced with scribbled inner-brain notes on how many packs of Lucky strikes Mr. Vonnegut will be likely to swallow up on the last day of his swimmingly accomplished half-life, yet the technique remains the same.
context was and remains everything. your life is a mist you strain to look through...you, looking for an island that does not exist, but for which you will remain ever engaged in attempting to clarify. the mist of indentity and meaning. how you are and how you're doing is reliable only with the additional attachment of 'right now' or 'right then' clearly embossed on the surface of your statement.
at no point will demons be solid enough to shoot at with creative wit as a weapon. at no point will angels remain tangible enough to pull inside you and hold on to. demons and angels, it seems, just glide through you for unspecified amount of time, to twist or lift you on their way towards...well...soewhere else. good times and bad times appear to be, at some point, the accidental occurances for powers beyond our control and ignorant of our existence.
blessed be our names, for we still possess them. we stand not in shallow putrid waters, basking in the rot of awakening american racial fetish nightmares. we stand, for the most part, clear and dry. what kind of clerical sorting sense can we develop in a world set upon eggshells? a soft shallow touch to us all then.
the wind is tenacious today, and so are the women of the city. both swirl around, playfully obvlivious to the silent shivers they seem to be able to forever bring. at some point, voices tell me, that will stop or slow as well.
there once was a poem about a man who made lists in order to understand his life. to apply some context and purpose to things, he tried to write down everything. to his frustration he found that then, as in now, his life spiraled from the list's contents far before he could even finish writing it. the list was useless before it's ink had begun to dry. i understood it well then, when i first wrote it. i understand it even better now.
i'm trying god. or at least, i seem to want to tell myself so.
feeling feelings everyday
money troubles again, only from extremely poor planning. ill be fine, my rent is about to be halfed for a little while.
also, i cut off aol...they'll stop my account when my free service runs out in the middle of the month.
----
at some point you must realize that you will not be growing any taller. you will not become tighter or more fully shouldered. your life will become ever-increasingly expensive despite all protest, and the same hands that keep you from freedom have a grasp on those you love, so that your escape would mean their contrictions would increase in intensity. at some point you no longer know everything, and are increasingly likely (should you avoid major religious affiliation) to admit to knowing nothing.
day by day, you will hunch ever more crooked, ever further conveying ditraction and distance. at some point, sex is less the pumping of truth in your veins and more the steady beat of breathing. at some point, your dick will not stay hard for hours without medical assistance. at some point you must test yourself with stronger brew and more vicious comparisons...but at no point are you fully torn from self critique. at no point will the damp touch of doubt chase finally away from the back of spiked membranes in your mind. at no point do things stop.
at no point will movie stars and erotic artists be truly mundane or 'just like you.' at no point at all will you stop searching for reference points to compare your choices and behavior to. 'tyler durden smokes' will be replaced with scribbled inner-brain notes on how many packs of Lucky strikes Mr. Vonnegut will be likely to swallow up on the last day of his swimmingly accomplished half-life, yet the technique remains the same.
context was and remains everything. your life is a mist you strain to look through...you, looking for an island that does not exist, but for which you will remain ever engaged in attempting to clarify. the mist of indentity and meaning. how you are and how you're doing is reliable only with the additional attachment of 'right now' or 'right then' clearly embossed on the surface of your statement.
at no point will demons be solid enough to shoot at with creative wit as a weapon. at no point will angels remain tangible enough to pull inside you and hold on to. demons and angels, it seems, just glide through you for unspecified amount of time, to twist or lift you on their way towards...well...soewhere else. good times and bad times appear to be, at some point, the accidental occurances for powers beyond our control and ignorant of our existence.
blessed be our names, for we still possess them. we stand not in shallow putrid waters, basking in the rot of awakening american racial fetish nightmares. we stand, for the most part, clear and dry. what kind of clerical sorting sense can we develop in a world set upon eggshells? a soft shallow touch to us all then.
the wind is tenacious today, and so are the women of the city. both swirl around, playfully obvlivious to the silent shivers they seem to be able to forever bring. at some point, voices tell me, that will stop or slow as well.
there once was a poem about a man who made lists in order to understand his life. to apply some context and purpose to things, he tried to write down everything. to his frustration he found that then, as in now, his life spiraled from the list's contents far before he could even finish writing it. the list was useless before it's ink had begun to dry. i understood it well then, when i first wrote it. i understand it even better now.
i'm trying god. or at least, i seem to want to tell myself so.
feeling feelings everyday