a place to put words

an apparatus of stardust and desire. each cell containing an eternity of potentialities, all beautifully arbitrary. organs justifying their own existence against the weight of eternity. like dancing furiously against the prospect that everything we have convinced ourselves is meaningful is in fact arbitrary. beautiful in its futility, terrifying in its fragility, and humbling in its mockery of divinity.

vaporwave sounds like the waiting room to eternity

i have always loved the sound of a heartbeat. a constant reminder that we are alive and must bear the weight of our own movement through time, whether we like it or not.

it's not the pain that scares, it's the thought that i enjoy feeling damaged. i don't want to feel this way. why can't my thoughts just be quieter, it's such a pretty day outside god i sound so fucking edgy right now why can't i just feel how i feel without making fun of myself for not doing it right. if i were giving advice to someone else i wouldnt be doing this my brain feels like its leaking battery acid everyone else walks home alone from school, why does it mess with me so much? why won't my brain let me live. why are my thoughts so loud does everyone feel this way? i dont want to know the answer. maybe i feel a sick twisted sense of approval in being the only sad person ever. king of the world by being at the bottom like up spitefully yeah whatever, who gives a shit. im just being over dramatic i think. things are good i think.

1: you will never have enough time to do the things you want to do, so do them 2: my voice drones on when i rant, it becomes this sound with one tone. more passion!! i think i see how it happens now, and can recognize when. more passion!!! maybe then people will find me as interesting as i think i am 3: "he's back in the hospital" is the most disheartening words that can exist. when my grandmother died i felt weird that i didn't feel sad. it just happened, and the world got gloomier. maybe i like to think that this is what spawned my sort of self reflection. it's scary that scary things can happen to you so far away that it becomes hard to feel it. ive heard those words so many times that they lose their meaning. life is sad. life is still. we come to being in fiery shrieks of agony, as if we can predict the suffering to come. we die in somber stillness, hopefully around or thinking about those that walked the painful journey with them. i hope i will be awake wh...

all my responsibilities hit me in one moment, and i feel like im suffocating. i love everything that i do, i just wish they didnt tire me as much as they do. and once i do them i love them, its just... this feeling. all i want to do is climb into a fetal position and feel every possible moment until i can't.  i think that's what i was always meant to do, be at peace and coexist with the cacophony of existence. i just want to count every leaf and name every frog, but i can't. the eye of the hurricane is so beautiful. it just stings. there is absolutely nothing i can do about it, because that's life. this is just how the universe is. guess i gotta just keep moving. 

“If all is for naught, then why bother writing it down? Caught in a vicious circle, ensnared in the logical absurdities of awkward self-awareness. It seems there are one of two options: either speak to this situation, or remain silent. The writer’s failure is that they know they should choose the latter, but cannot help attempting the former. Writers (and readers… when there are readers…) console themselves by naming this failure: an apology, a confession, a testimony, a treatise, a history, a biography, a life. But the continual accumulation of that-which-cannot-be-put-into-words always points back to this one basic realization – that, when it comes to human beings, silence is the most adequate form of expression. There are, then, two paths. Ultimately writers dream of taking neither path, leaving all paths for the forest. But it’s just a dream.” - Eugene Thacker, "Infinite Resignation"