the thought that writing this, subsists trough time, unlike pure imaginary thought, is a haunting one. it is not like one of shakespeare’s sonnets; his beloved’s beauty captured, immortal, read by others. no, nothing of that sort. for there’s no beauty in this whatsoever. just a bunch immaculate words jumbled, mashed up together, thinking that they form some idea or thought, so that they may be understood by others. write an epigram or two, which could easily be substituted by the name of crappy poems, and be thought profound by others.
in the first place, and in the first place, i don’t know why the fuck i would keep coming back writing here, when i’ve got other places to write on. it’s not as if it would be consolation or something. producing something out of your head, either verbally or in writing, does nothing but to arrange your thoughts, make them coherent to others, communicate them in order to generate a mutual understanding between two individuals.
but fuck, i know that i never quite find the exact words to express anything tangible. it’s not a complete mystery or anything, or deeply complicated, but it’s just messed up. scraps of events here and there, tiny ornaments that seem to signify something, people that seem to seamlessly fly out of your hands, useless pile of information that was never put to good use, a wide range of knowledge of pop culture, literature, music, poetry, myths, films, paintings, symbols, history, buildings and shit. you get all fed all sorts of stuff you don’t quite know how to blurt anything out except rubbish.
add this to the diminishing amount of vocabulary i seem to have, the degeneration of this brain which gets only worse by the day, or by age for that matter, the amount of responsibility and duty which comes with that, it’s getting annoyingly depressing. now one often hears this particular word uttered by friends and people alike. and hey hey give me my happy pills if it makes me feel better. it’s fucking annoying, i tell you. it does nothing but make you feel numb and dumb, tired and bored, wallowing in self pity; it’s makes it all worse.
if only it was as easy as that.
perkaraperkara 