august 28th</u> /
..1.36am - What are you suppose to think of yourself when all you hear from people that are suppose to support you most, is avalanche of verbal abuse? When you are being reminded everyday that you're a nobody, going nowhere, even if in other people's eyes you're an ideal friend. Often being compared to people that wasted their life away, the losers who accomplished zero, nill, nada. Working a dead-end job, with no degree, you did this to yourself. You did this, you decided to skip out on the higher education. You have cut yourself off from friends, from family members living less than a football field away, from fresh air alltogether (let's not go as far as saying "fresh" about the air in New York, but you get my drift). Locking yourself away in a paper prison of your own appartment, isolation, seemed logical since you can't afford to have fun without the green. Sleeping pills are a good way to reboot your system, because in reality the difficulty of life can be too hard for some. So cheers my friend, grab some h2o, chase down an army of medicine you just swallowed, kick back and enjoy the show. Enjoy your life's highlights in slow-mo, written, directed and produced by yours truly. All your glory days as a kid, loved by everyone, no pause, no rewind, this is your True Hollywood Story, your Pay-Per-View event, World Premiere. That one time when you split your head open trying to dance in a room full of drunk relatives, the time when your uncle, who you dearly miss, pushed you aside and you landed with the back of your skull molded to a corner of some sharp piece of furniture. The forecast shows clouds of panic with a chance of hysteria showers. Bathtub, a qarter-full of blood, family and siblings all around, trying to tuck your medulla oblongata back in, your dad passing out, oh those were the days. You were the center of attention, smiling at the reflection of you in the maroon tub, happy to know that you're important, cared for by all ('cept your dad, he's on the floor, passed out from seeing half your brain nearly leak out), loved by most. Right now the pills marching through the back of your throat, you can hear them, rattling around like a bunch of garbage being thrown down a disposal. Won't be long before they find you with your shirt off on the floor, next to your laptop computer, finishing up the last sentence you will ever write, cursor still blinking and all. A flashback of a first black eye here, first kiss there, and you start to realise that you're permanent, your life isn't. When your sister was at the age of three or four, you would make her cry by leaving her alone in a dark room, only to come back few minutes later to tears and hugs, fulfilled with a sense of accomplishment, knowing that you're needed, that's how you sucked the love out of people, you evil little shit. Blink, next channel, comedy, the time your ass got stuck in tar on a newly constructed roof, your red sandals are still glued to the top of the building where you used to live, still there as a monument, a statue that you made yourself. Sad that the biggest mark you left for people to remember you by on this waste of a planet are the two, shiny, still glowing traffic-light-red, size 2 baby kicks. Your own hollywood square. The little marching meds are kicking in, this is when - WAKE UP! WAKE THE FUCK UP! You're late for work! it's 8.30am, you said you had to leave at 8am! Get the fuck out of bed. Thanks conscience. My life, it's a sick maze with cheese at every corner.
can you hear yourself think?
Journals13
Newest
6
8 min read
He never was the type to really care about time. you can't see, touch or taste it, time is just there, its like air, except the side effects are lethal. You never really know how much spare time you have left in your pocket, you never really learn to accept the fact that it will eventually consume you. His friends appreciated his company, his sense of humor, the way he carried himself as if he didn't really care what anybody thought of him, except he did. He didn't need anymore friends, his phonebook had enough entries in it to make space for new ones, so in a group of fresh acquaintances he kept to himself.
Our lungs can hold up to seven pints of air, yet an average person takes in a pint of air with each breath. People with weak lungs often speak in monotone and may sound like there is sorrow in their voices. I happen to think his voice was a little too chipper for his own good, except in the mornings.
On the morning of his thirty fourth birthday, still in bed , he asked his wife what time it was, she replied and then asked him if she kisses the frog will it turn back into her loving husband, they smile, I smile. She wishes him one happy miracle on his birthday, followed by a kiss. After wiping the crusty remains of the morning from his eyes, he gets out of bed and goes about his daily routine. Except on that day being constantly interrupted by birthday phone calls as he brushes his teeth, puts on the moisturizer for his baggy eyes, reads the morning paper, puts on his favorite shirt - that has a small burn mark on the bottom corner of the shirt from when him and his wife went at it spontaneously and she tossed it onto a lamp. Making plans while making plans. I try not to disrupt his big day, after all, I have never seen him at this age yet, so I'm careful as to not bother him. His wife makes arrangements with his friends for the party later that day, its a weekend so they aim for mid afternoon. He was a bit of a troubled man, his life was a puzzle that was never really put together properly. If certain things bothered him, he was the kind of person to keep them bottled in.
If you unfold the lungs of an average adult, it could cover the size of a tennis court. I was never really into tennis. When he was younger, he thought he was special, he thought he was indestructible, so one day he jumped out of his family's third floor apartment balcony onto his neighbor's garden, where the first floor neighbors grew vegetables. He jumped because he was practicing his escape route, in case he ever needed to run away from home. Little was left of the vegetables in the garden, or his kneecap, which shattered on impact, it was eventually rebuilt and he was able to recover.
He gives his wife a hug, she gives him a shopping list, I give them more time. His mood is bright, but with each deep breath he takes, on the exhale, he feels as if his heart drops. That feeling you get when you are about to go through a drop on a roller coaster. In one of the rooms, a faint sound of alarm goes off, I tell him its okay, I will take care of it, he puts on his penny loafers and is out the door into the distant world of urban utility hunters and soccer moms. She sent him off, so she can cook and get everything ready for his big, birthday arrival. As he's walking around the stores, getting the important artifacts his significant other asked him for, he is being grazed by human traffic, shaken and pushed by random people that are telling him to wake up, and snap out of it. He feels light.
His wife is opening the door to greet the attendees, the Bobs and Tims and Jenniffers and Susans. Each one with a sack in hand, containing something of value that they think will throw a smile on our birthday boy's aging face. Conversations overlap in the living room with stories about how each attendee knows the host. Doorbell rings, Heathers, Johns, Andrews are all filling up the space in the tragic residence. He never liked celebrating his own birthday, as much as he did others. With bags in hand, he fumbles with the keys, stabs the keyhole and tackles the door to let himself inside, only to find himself being yelled and screamed at by his wife, close friends and a few family members.
Surprise.
He acts like he didn't know about this cheerful ambush and goes along with it, widening his eyes and smiling at everybody, mouthing thank you's. Hugs are being bestowed upon him, he is happy. In the middle of hugging one of the screamers, another screamer attaches what looks like a pointy device that can receive cable, to the top of his head. Everybody else is wearing one, they just made him a part of their delightful cult. He is thirty four, and they are making him feel like a child again, being spoiled by the warm compliments and wishes, that will never come true. As soon as the majority of guests each got their turn to verbally molest him with kindness, he is led by his wife (hand in hand) into a room, full of edible goodness, that she has prepared herself.
One time, at around the age of seven, he ate something that was most likely expired, for breakfast. On his way to school, he started to feel bloated, he felt like his stomach was expanding, he was scared that his insides were going to explode. He asked the teacher to call his mother, so that she can pick him up and fix him. Mother rushed over from work, worrying about her offspring and his nearly-exploding bowels, dragged him out of school and onto a bus to a hospital. She felt terrible that she didn't know what to do until they got to the hospital, so she just pet his head while he's cringing and holding his stomach. As they arrived at the hospital, he was nearly crying because he was in pain and didn't know what was going on inside of him, before they went into the doctor's office, he asked his mother to go to the bathroom. She waited patiently outside, worried, pacing. He came out with a look of relief and a deep sigh, it was the first time he had gas cramps.
At this point, the guests have managed to devour most of the meal his wife have prepared and people are requesting the presence of cake. While he sits at the helm of this dining committee, lights go dim. His eyes feel heavy, his breathing is stable, a wave of haze washes over him. His beautiful wife comes out of another room, with her face dimly lit by the flickering candles inserted into the cake. As the light dances across her face, her voice gets lost in the sea of other guests, though you can make out what her mouth is trying to say. Everybody is singing in unison, including me, while she brings the cake closer to him and as soon as the song comes to and end, a round of applause is being awarded to him. Now this is the moment where people normally make a wish, he draws a blank, and since he has everything, he looks at his beautiful wife and wishes for comfort in his life.
Pneumothorax.
He inhales a large amount of air, to get rid of the light that's illuminating everyone's face, looses his balance and collapses to the ground, his lungs collapse along with him, while the cake falls beside him off his wife's hands. I look at him laying there, clawing at his chest and feel like this has happened before. Everybody is panicking, screaming, but not the joyous screaming that guests of this tragic party were so eager to lay on his ears just moments before the meal. This is a different kind of surprise. His wife is crying over his twitching body now, people are dialing different numbers, and time seems like it has slowed down. Its getting darker now, even though some candles are still lit on the floor, marinating in cake. As his eyes glaze over, and his hearing is disappearing, I tell him. "Sometimes, amidst the cluttered archives of your life, you find comfort and sometimes, people wear pointy hats."
Everything goes black.
He wakes up.
Our lungs can hold up to seven pints of air, yet an average person takes in a pint of air with each breath. People with weak lungs often speak in monotone and may sound like there is sorrow in their voices. I happen to think his voice was a little too chipper for his own good, except in the mornings.
On the morning of his thirty fourth birthday, still in bed , he asked his wife what time it was, she replied and then asked him if she kisses the frog will it turn back into her loving husband, they smile, I smile. She wishes him one happy miracle on his birthday, followed by a kiss. After wiping the crusty remains of the morning from his eyes, he gets out of bed and goes about his daily routine. Except on that day being constantly interrupted by birthday phone calls as he brushes his teeth, puts on the moisturizer for his baggy eyes, reads the morning paper, puts on his favorite shirt - that has a small burn mark on the bottom corner of the shirt from when him and his wife went at it spontaneously and she tossed it onto a lamp. Making plans while making plans. I try not to disrupt his big day, after all, I have never seen him at this age yet, so I'm careful as to not bother him. His wife makes arrangements with his friends for the party later that day, its a weekend so they aim for mid afternoon. He was a bit of a troubled man, his life was a puzzle that was never really put together properly. If certain things bothered him, he was the kind of person to keep them bottled in.
If you unfold the lungs of an average adult, it could cover the size of a tennis court. I was never really into tennis. When he was younger, he thought he was special, he thought he was indestructible, so one day he jumped out of his family's third floor apartment balcony onto his neighbor's garden, where the first floor neighbors grew vegetables. He jumped because he was practicing his escape route, in case he ever needed to run away from home. Little was left of the vegetables in the garden, or his kneecap, which shattered on impact, it was eventually rebuilt and he was able to recover.
He gives his wife a hug, she gives him a shopping list, I give them more time. His mood is bright, but with each deep breath he takes, on the exhale, he feels as if his heart drops. That feeling you get when you are about to go through a drop on a roller coaster. In one of the rooms, a faint sound of alarm goes off, I tell him its okay, I will take care of it, he puts on his penny loafers and is out the door into the distant world of urban utility hunters and soccer moms. She sent him off, so she can cook and get everything ready for his big, birthday arrival. As he's walking around the stores, getting the important artifacts his significant other asked him for, he is being grazed by human traffic, shaken and pushed by random people that are telling him to wake up, and snap out of it. He feels light.
His wife is opening the door to greet the attendees, the Bobs and Tims and Jenniffers and Susans. Each one with a sack in hand, containing something of value that they think will throw a smile on our birthday boy's aging face. Conversations overlap in the living room with stories about how each attendee knows the host. Doorbell rings, Heathers, Johns, Andrews are all filling up the space in the tragic residence. He never liked celebrating his own birthday, as much as he did others. With bags in hand, he fumbles with the keys, stabs the keyhole and tackles the door to let himself inside, only to find himself being yelled and screamed at by his wife, close friends and a few family members.
Surprise.
He acts like he didn't know about this cheerful ambush and goes along with it, widening his eyes and smiling at everybody, mouthing thank you's. Hugs are being bestowed upon him, he is happy. In the middle of hugging one of the screamers, another screamer attaches what looks like a pointy device that can receive cable, to the top of his head. Everybody else is wearing one, they just made him a part of their delightful cult. He is thirty four, and they are making him feel like a child again, being spoiled by the warm compliments and wishes, that will never come true. As soon as the majority of guests each got their turn to verbally molest him with kindness, he is led by his wife (hand in hand) into a room, full of edible goodness, that she has prepared herself.
One time, at around the age of seven, he ate something that was most likely expired, for breakfast. On his way to school, he started to feel bloated, he felt like his stomach was expanding, he was scared that his insides were going to explode. He asked the teacher to call his mother, so that she can pick him up and fix him. Mother rushed over from work, worrying about her offspring and his nearly-exploding bowels, dragged him out of school and onto a bus to a hospital. She felt terrible that she didn't know what to do until they got to the hospital, so she just pet his head while he's cringing and holding his stomach. As they arrived at the hospital, he was nearly crying because he was in pain and didn't know what was going on inside of him, before they went into the doctor's office, he asked his mother to go to the bathroom. She waited patiently outside, worried, pacing. He came out with a look of relief and a deep sigh, it was the first time he had gas cramps.
At this point, the guests have managed to devour most of the meal his wife have prepared and people are requesting the presence of cake. While he sits at the helm of this dining committee, lights go dim. His eyes feel heavy, his breathing is stable, a wave of haze washes over him. His beautiful wife comes out of another room, with her face dimly lit by the flickering candles inserted into the cake. As the light dances across her face, her voice gets lost in the sea of other guests, though you can make out what her mouth is trying to say. Everybody is singing in unison, including me, while she brings the cake closer to him and as soon as the song comes to and end, a round of applause is being awarded to him. Now this is the moment where people normally make a wish, he draws a blank, and since he has everything, he looks at his beautiful wife and wishes for comfort in his life.
Pneumothorax.
He inhales a large amount of air, to get rid of the light that's illuminating everyone's face, looses his balance and collapses to the ground, his lungs collapse along with him, while the cake falls beside him off his wife's hands. I look at him laying there, clawing at his chest and feel like this has happened before. Everybody is panicking, screaming, but not the joyous screaming that guests of this tragic party were so eager to lay on his ears just moments before the meal. This is a different kind of surprise. His wife is crying over his twitching body now, people are dialing different numbers, and time seems like it has slowed down. Its getting darker now, even though some candles are still lit on the floor, marinating in cake. As his eyes glaze over, and his hearing is disappearing, I tell him. "Sometimes, amidst the cluttered archives of your life, you find comfort and sometimes, people wear pointy hats."
Everything goes black.
He wakes up.
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page 103
4 min read
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untitled
6 min read
.. 3.42am, I've done nothing all day. I slept, felt like shit when I was awake, and slept some more. Now that I'm up, I'm just going to grab a bite to eat and then pass out listening to some depressing piece of soothing earcandy. Is it in these moods that we are suppose to produce something artistic? Do you automatically become an artist once you put your thoughts onto a piece of paper or paint them on canvas? I'm at a point in my life where I feel like I have nothing to look forward to, the things I wanted to see or accomplish are just muffled sounds thumping in and out of my head. I feel like a robot on autopilot, going somewhere and doing things that other people would want to see me do. Why does it take a tragedy to produce something beautiful? Can you love life? I wish I was able to appreciate it more. I wish that I could hold on to some of the people I meet.. one person in general. The person that shares the great unknown with you, the person that appreciates your efforts to make things better for the two of you, the same exact person that squeezes toothpaste from the middle and the person that you can be comfortable being yourself around wearing your grandma's panties, if it were to come to that. There is no specific point I'm trying to make here, this is just your typical, run-of-the-mill, tour through the half-closed doors of my thinkbox. Some people never find their Eve, the Eve that their inner Adam once gave a rib for. It's like we are the people, put here on earth to play a game. How it goes is, you, long ago, gave something away to a person to hold onto, that something was a half of your heart (or a rib). What God did (if there is one), is shuffle us all like a deck of cards, and threw us up on the planet we call home. Now we're lost in our own habitat, looking for the person without a face who has the other half of your heart you once gave away to. When you find that person, you win a prize, you win the life-long vacation in paradise, this paradise we will call a healthy relationship with a person that made you complete and vice versa. This prize would be love. 4.26am Why did the bitch had to eat the apple? You know, I believe in reincarnation, I believe that once we're done fucking around here, by that I mean once we've run out of sand in the hourglass, we become germs. As if. On the last time you exhale, you let out your lifelong soul, or a bacteria in this case, that floats around, looking for a vulnerable host to invade. This is when you start over. So people that once left a message, committed a crime, created something beautiful are the same people that later find that message, solve the crime, and the same people keep on creating something beautiful where they left off. We all start off with preloaded talents in our hard-drives. I mentally kill things I love, and then bitch and whine about it, that is my talent. We run around in circle or a pentagon all our lives, trying to connect the dots, leaving cookie crumbs after ourselves so we don't get lost and get back to the place we once started off with. I don't even like writing, but at this point, after a long night of drinking and all day of feeling like a shit at the bottom of your shoe, it's actually pretty therapeutic. 5.02am I want my half back. I want to learn how to play the guitar again, because I once knew, then forgot, I want to write songs about breakups. You know that one song that triggers something when you listen to it, because you think it's poetically well put together, because you can relate to it, because you went through the same shit once too and you just want to give a good, firm handshake to the song's creator and give 'em a nice pat on the back for the deja vu. The same germ-like character that fell from the 'breakup' tree and hit every branch on the way down, wrote that song. I want to be back with my someone, the one that makes me feel whole again. This 'dear diary' babble shit is done. 5.12am ..find me again please. I feel like my head is a balloon being detached from my body, and my mind floating away in search of interesting subjects to think about. What would happen if all that you think about was actually presented to other people on a silver platter, when somebody asks you on your thoughts about their plastic surgery operation and you just happen to laugh a little in your head and proceed to think how their nose looks like an elephant trunk tied in a knot. Picture your thoughts being put into comic-book style bubbles, imagine walking around the city being able to read what people are thinking, turning pages and then reading more. Imagine how overwhelming it would be. Well when you find your half's keeper that's pretty much how it is.. you don't have to worry about them lying to you about where they have been the night before, or whether or not your ass looks fat in those jeans, yes it does and they will let you know that. You can simply read their mind. How surreal would our world be if we could all have mentally constructed appartments in our heads, then invite others to see how you live. We would live in pure bliss. Would it bother you much if the person that you invited to have a look-see at the newly redesigned humble abode in your head starts hogging the blankets or not wiping their feet on the fresh laid 'welcome' mat located somewhere between cerebellum and the brain stem? I have the biggest brainstorm in my head right now, guess I kind of crashed my appartment when I got drunk last night, now the whole place is a mess, hypothalamus is all fucked up, can't sleep in peace anymore, damn cold in here. I want to invent a color and give it a name, a person's name, maybe a gender too.. 5.45am still here, I wonder.. if I had a thick black stripe on my forehead, it would smile.
can you hear yourself think?
can you hear yourself think?
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still here.
2 min read
hi.
+ Talented mofos and such :
sEan:dimA:angeTriste:yury:pacMan23:Eosis:danimation2oo1
:::::::
(check it) :
L://.
.bye
+ Talented mofos and such :
sEan:dimA:angeTriste:yury:pacMan23:Eosis:danimation2oo1
:::::::
(check it) :
L://.
.bye
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updating style.
4 min read
hi.
+ Talented mofos and such :
sEan:dimA:angeTriste:yury:pacMan23:Eosis:danimation2oo1
:::::::
New year, New crap (check it) :
L://.
.bye
+ Talented mofos and such :
sEan:dimA:angeTriste:yury:pacMan23:Eosis:danimation2oo1
:::::::
New year, New crap (check it) :
L://.
.bye
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