I am alive and eaten alive by a busy lifestyle. Livid and living, but to you I do not exist. This is why I haven't written myself into existence lately: I like to play with words that can be sculptured, words that are substantial and defined in their dreaminess, in their inherit, abstractly physical qualities. Words that are real and weighted. Words that are written down with your hand. When I read the dim, limed words that are projected glowingly from my computer screen, I feel pressure on the front of my brain, as though every thought is sliding forward, pushing, pressing. Words printed on paper seem to have a palpable crispness to them, like you could gather them up and crumble them in your hands. But the words that appear onscreen due to technological processes that are a mystery to me seem insubstantially delicate and filmy, undefined like wet newsprint, magnified from a hazy, fishbowled computer screen. But enough silliness about words, which aren't even real!
I want to think in friendly ways, in wistful and wonderful ways, in ways of colorful flashes and splashes.
There is a pretty, platitudinous party going on, but I can't be a part of it. I don't want to be a part of it, another mechanical machine, talking about mundane things. Sometimes I am the only friend i want to have. A girl threw herself into the pool and expected someone to provide her with pants, and that is what I cannot stand and that is what I cannot live for.
I forget sometimes, that I live for love. And I won't give up, but I think it's time to forget about it, to set it in the back of my brain crumbled underneath old thoughts, images and memories. It's time to not be so set up and let down.
World, stop encouraging me!