| alright, truthfully, i'm wavering in and out of feeling jubilant and depressed
i mean, i'm not really able to qualify it well, but if i need to concretize the abstraction of it all, that's what it is
any manifest happenings?
underlying it all, a dread of aging, of being disagreeable towards involving myself societally with a sense of pretension (social adulthood) that i've never carried.
but there are events and happenings related and unrelated to this
my notice of tensing, unrelenting shifts in dynamics between others and myself
the sense of suffocation being built based upon a sense of discretion that is again linked to the developing adulthood
i apologize. clearly i'm being too errant
what else.
i'm not sure
overall, i'm simply not enjoying the perceptible sense of refined, deluded parasitism that's entailed in adulthood.
i don't want that
consequently, i don't want adulthood
and i as i have said, i become elucidated to the unchanging, essentially non-developing nature of the human and it frightens me.
humans frighten me
we develop this substance called knowledge in favor of manifestly reasserting and re-expressing that which is inherent within our nature--parasitism, desecration, combatism.
throughout our entire lives, we gain joy from demarcating our superiority to others
and it's simply so inherent
as to make it inescapable
i feel that i'm stuck in an perpetual abyss
mind on repeat, instincts on repeat
and with all of these considerations, i do warrant a no-response, as these thoughts are powerfully frightening
much less stunting |
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| and it's ironic that within such perpetual chaos i find momentary stillness |
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| i hate rock stars
they don't seem to realize that despite their urgency for individuality, they're quite the placid majority of mentalities. |
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| this wanting is treacherous. it's cancerous; i know of it's searing. you're so inimical, so essential it seems, but i can't seem to release the understanding that you're not. fuck my sensibilities. i crave your affection. fuck my mentality. such romantic requisite is burdening. i hollow myself for a taste of your affection, the taste of your skin. it must be bittersweet--so delicate and suggestive, so tender. vagueness is simply all i can provide. your name is daunting, years. nostalgia is a prime factor yet time is useless as memory has minimal precedent within. but the glimmer of your name, it's so calling. and the physical availability and closeness.
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| CONTEMPLATIONS IN THE ART(S) OF DEATH |
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