one day even the demons will leave and instead of the overwhelming emptiness of space where they were there is only Stone
you forget how to love after meeting enough people who have forgotten to love
there is a preoccupation i have these days. everything is reduced to preoccupation.
you stop wanting to love or be loved after a while – not in a disorganized scattered overwhelmed way. it’s just a quietness. it’s the soft clutter of other things in one’s life. books. papers. conferences. i hope i’m busy and preoccupied and distracted and maybe even happy when a bus finally hits me one day. preoccupation. before occupation.
it’s just a game i have in my head: would i really care if anyone in my life got hit by a bus and the answer is always no – except for myself. i, present-me sitting here, would care if future-me got hit by a bus. but if and when it happens i hope im happy
i think about the laziness i feel in capitalising i in my pieces. when i get hit by a bus one day, i hope i will have given myself a graduation – a self promotion to I, a movement away from lethargy, a better sense of myself
i feel i have taken this body hostage in some strange way and that it is not mine after all
i feel the girl that kept this blog is not who i am and i feel alien to the sensation of writing the way i used to
i write in lists now.
ijust want to notcare in the most extreme sense of the word, I want you to blend into the wallpaper of my past, into the grey of useless memories about useless men, into the insignificance of days that do not matter.
i guess i’ll always be a witch in how my words come true because i don’t care. i just didn’t expect everyone to blend into the grey of useless memories along with you but there it is, a wallpaper of people in my life that i don’t really see anymore
i should be grateful i think. i should have some gratitude i think. but i don’t. i have…a preoccupation. i am preoccupied. i am thinking. i feel the body is such a limiting tool. and i am indifferent. and at best some days, the slight feeling i have about anything is reluctance.
some people call me passionate about the work i do but i don’t think that’s true. i don’t know what that is. in Mindhunter, Holden and Debbie discuss Goffman’s understanding of masks. “What would you wear if no one was around?” Holden asks. “probably nothing,” Debbie says. “What about you?” “Probably still the suit” Holden says. “We are what we pretend so we must be careful what we pretend” Vonnegut wrote.
i feel all of us are ocean in the end or mud or nothing and that boundaries between people are artificial but necessary
why has pain mattered more to me than joy? is a question i have no answer to if meaning is contrived. maybe it’s just weakness, i muse. maybe it’s just a kind of weakness of the soul to value pain more than joy. joyful truths always feel like lies in the end. and pain has always felt more truthful. more real. more solid.
some people are not vessels for love and that’s ok they may be vessels of great creativity, intelligence, drive
i think people believe in God because they need someone to tell them who they are
i don’t know who i am but i don’t care; i know who i am enough to survive this stupid fucking idiotic world
i thought i was a liberal but i think im a nihilist which is bad because the trajectory of me turning into a white nonsense spouting 20 year old philosobro dumbass is starting to solidify
i am glad my general sense of life is a careful navigation of my preoccupation with indifference, slight reluctance, boredom, lethargy because it is better than the horrifying ugliness of those old demons no they don’t feel dead, but they do feel…gone.
maybe that’s why i don’t know who i am anymore – without the ugliness of the past, the present feels….unanchored. there is a freedom to floating, to being adrift, to consider swimming, to attempt flying. i feel untethered. unattached. in control.
i think when parents die people freak out because they lose that anchor. security. it is a second umbilical cord cutting away. maybe if one of my parents died i would experience a second layer of untethering.
am i learning how to be a ghost?
being human has always felt out of reach
i think about what we let inside. the meat of ourselves. i think about his laughter in my ear, his fingers in my mouth. i think about how i thought i felt his soul echo inside my heart. i think about what a lie it was. my cat ate a flea and in the flea was a tapeworm egg that grew into a tapeworm that the poor thing is trying to shit out daily and i wonder what is growing on me, feeding on me inside me, maybe after i am hit by a bus, and after i am dead and cremated, maybe they will find worm eggs in the ashes too.
we are who we are around. we are who we let in. maybe i am turning into a worm. maybe i am turning into him.
i have broken so many hearts this summer and none of that matters to me. i don’t care.
so now i know he didn’t care. this is what breaking a heart feels like: absolutely nothing slightly annoying.
god, people are annoying when they are heartbroken. all my writing is tired. i irritate myself.
i do not even have the conviction of self loathing anymore.