Thursday, December 11, 2003

Sing Me A Song

My first language these days is jibberish, secondary to English and all these "I know what you mean" 's delayed way after the message has any merit or meaning.

I am struggling with things when I dont want to but other times I could be in the middle of the Indian Ocena, not knowing or thinking it. I bob on the ebb and tide of this Civil War between myself and myself, and try not to think about how much friction is happening.

I try to disappear into it for the ten hours and reappear afterwards. This whole language thing is no use to me for days at a time.

These days, falling in love again with everyone again. It's so hard to keep from getting confused if you understand what I mean from that.

Someday we can ride kerosene dirtbikes in Paraguay until we run out of fuel and hitch a ride. Or maybe drink from tiny cups libation in the Tunisia night. And you can whisper everything you'd like to into my ear in a loud room... and I'll hear whatever I'd like with your breath happy enough and warm.

And jazz we will.

Tuesday, December 9, 2003

I'm Flailing

These past few days have been busy. Extremely busy. But not in the fulfilling, productive way. Rather, I feel as if I just went through a whole day just flailing my arms about. I have the semblance of looking really occupied, but in the end, I have accomplished nothing.

Sleep late. Wake up early. Clean. Then pay my daily visits to the internet. Then read. And return to the cycle, not smarter, not happier, unchanged but worn down.

Last month I was utterly inactive and unoccupied, this month I am pursuing just the opposite, yet both are resulting in the same consequence. How do I quench this pain of utter and absolute disappointment. Or of leashing it on others, rather.

It wasn't that long ago that I had the hope of finding something in someone. Now that notion is out. The phone call friendship has dissipated. I have little to sustain myself with. Never before have thoughts of suicide plagued me so often. While thinking of drawing up a bath this morning, I stared up at the high tile walls above the bathtub and thought of how nice it would be to have my life-force draining from the wrists, until I feel nothing but the simple warmth of the water, and eventually, nothing.

Life is so hard. If it is not utterly comatising in its mundaneity, it continuously deceives you with roaring highs, only to rape you with abysmal lows. Either way, it is utterly devastating in its greyness and ambiguity. Perhaps I am just too idealistic. And maybe just a little insane. I should just accept that I'm never to find a definitive answer to why these things happen. Maybe I should just take the tedious monotony for what it is, and live as if I were an ant.

But to certain friends, don't worry about me, I would never commit suicide. I have too much of a curious and masochistic nature. And I would never devastate the people I love like that.

I guess life is like that. You eventually end up living for others that are living for you. We just define ourselves through others, which have no intrinsic value of their own neither. Just a series of empty shells placing their faith in other empty shells.

All right, enough torture for one day.

Friday, December 5, 2003

Jump Start

I hate these people who don't know the difference between Sam Cooke and Otis Redding and Ben E. King.

Otis Redding died just four days after recording "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay."

Wednesday, December 3, 2003

You've Hung Up the Phone

Stop what you're doing
And look around
I seem to have lost
you
some
where