“sometimes i read something i’ve written out loud up to 10 times before i consider it done. i never change anything that i’ve written after its done out of some stubborn committal issues or whatever but i read it up to 10 times aloud because sometimes i can’t help but wonder how i wrote the things i wrote and then i feel like someone is writing for me and then i can’t stop writing the things i am saying even though i am currently staring in disbelief and wow the view from mountains is surely the best thing any of us could ever possibly see in our short human lives, and then i go back into it again and i need to read it aloud 10 more times, but i might lose my voice and how will i talk on the phone for hours and then when will i sleep? making the time for everyone in my life is something akin to not allowing myself to spend more than five dollars a day if i am to afford a trip like my life is budgeted severely down to the wire and all of a sudden i have realized that i don’t want to keep doing what i have been doing for the past 5 years and devoting hundreds of days to—wow a year is three hundred and sixty five days and how many of those days have been miserable”—
a stream of consciousness poem, titled "10, 10, 10, 3, 6, 5", written by me.
such strange monotonies happen when seeing an unexpected friend at a coffee shop.
a flag pole and its cable clapping, throwing bouncing applause for a play that hasn’t yet reached a denouement
walk up to me and ask me the question so that i might find out for myself why i couldn’t escape such loneliness even though i fell in love with everyone even though you did what i requested
not that i asked out loud and you cannot read minds - thank god - for what i think isn’t for you to catch even a whiff but i wrote it down because my mother and father couldn’t understand and all i wanted to do was find someone who could, so that i may yell at them until they shake
helplessly to my self obsession, yes, the obsession that led to my ascension to meta, and how i thought about how to think more often than i actually thought. with an internal shrink shrugging simply myself asking him, (and by him, i mean me, over there in a straightjacket?) "and how does that make you feel?"
“At times I suffer from the strangest sense of detachment from myself and the world around me; I seem to watch it all from the outside, from somewhere inconceivably remote, out of time, out of space, out of the stress and tragedy of it all.”—H. G. Wells (via liqiud)