Wednesday, February 23, 2005
- 5:56 pm
quite frankly, their answers were never definitive enough, nor expansive. he grew sick of waiting for nothing to become something; he a nobody to become somebody. he was tired of existing for its very sake and so killed himself.
its so boring. its all so bad. everyone is so mild, so airheaded so..ordinary. nothing will ever be how it was, a mundane swirl swallowing me whole in the realisation that nothing will change when nothing is done in an instance when there is nothing to do..but write. write and remember, write and reminisce, write and understand
it won't ever be that way again;
the way it was so long ago,
the only way to live,
what woulda been we'll never know
and i dont want to. enamourment with a memory is much easier because the future doesnt exist, and the past is all so clear; but at the same time its much harder. i need to delete the rest of the posts saved as drafts and go back to my void and wait to die. i was never so far from being alone yet never sunk deeper in the mire of solitude.
you take the legend for a fall
yesterday i say 'Hotel Rwanda' and 'Constantine' with my third cousin twice removed on the fathers' side, a person i havent seen in a long time, so yesterday was great.
a broken note to break the monotony
close my eyes and pretend that this crumpled up paper can be perfect again
fin
hit the stars
