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Fuckyeah vaguebooking
Nov. 22nd, 2014 08:45 amPerspective. Just when I thought I was free I'm riddled with things I care about, need to think about, but cannot talk about.
Independence and strength fucking suck, they fucking suck like angels cutting the strings in (the movie) Jacob's ladder. How does that go, "They're cutting the strings that bind you to life, and whether you see them as angels or demons depends on how ready you are to go." Even the people I love can't drag me down, less so others. I can be sad but I control my actions. I might anesthetize myself later but I won't stop walking. I have times and places to stuff my fucking emotions.
This shit this week is too serious, too secretive, and not my own to share. I lament it, I was just celebrating freedom of many sorts, and then this. But no, I'll be grateful. This is, at fortyfuckingsix, building, growing. I miss having confidants, but not needing them. I still want to share joy, though when joy is sex that's either someone else's story too or hurtful to someone else. It just is, fleeting that it is, and even the people touch and could tell will be dead someday. Somebody 80 years ago had an amazing emotional sexual experience, and it and the memory of it died before or when they all died. Even if they staple your name to a law or a bridge nobody knows you, who you were and what you cared about. If you build a bridge with your hands even it will fall in 100 years. You mean nothing. That's liberating too.
Oh Janice you twit for one good line: Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.
Fine. I'll carry on as if I had a choice. I'll vaguebook and not drink alone and then get high on coffee, listen to classical music I don't understand, stare at the blank tv, I'll costa-rican brit carry on then. I'll sigh and wish I felt there was a reason to take the time to fucking feel it.
Yeah fuck you. This is where I can pour the stupid out, the pointless. Later when I see people today I'll laugh and listen, probably hump somebody's leg. Carry on.
Independence and strength fucking suck, they fucking suck like angels cutting the strings in (the movie) Jacob's ladder. How does that go, "They're cutting the strings that bind you to life, and whether you see them as angels or demons depends on how ready you are to go." Even the people I love can't drag me down, less so others. I can be sad but I control my actions. I might anesthetize myself later but I won't stop walking. I have times and places to stuff my fucking emotions.
This shit this week is too serious, too secretive, and not my own to share. I lament it, I was just celebrating freedom of many sorts, and then this. But no, I'll be grateful. This is, at fortyfuckingsix, building, growing. I miss having confidants, but not needing them. I still want to share joy, though when joy is sex that's either someone else's story too or hurtful to someone else. It just is, fleeting that it is, and even the people touch and could tell will be dead someday. Somebody 80 years ago had an amazing emotional sexual experience, and it and the memory of it died before or when they all died. Even if they staple your name to a law or a bridge nobody knows you, who you were and what you cared about. If you build a bridge with your hands even it will fall in 100 years. You mean nothing. That's liberating too.
Oh Janice you twit for one good line: Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.
Fine. I'll carry on as if I had a choice. I'll vaguebook and not drink alone and then get high on coffee, listen to classical music I don't understand, stare at the blank tv, I'll costa-rican brit carry on then. I'll sigh and wish I felt there was a reason to take the time to fucking feel it.
Yeah fuck you. This is where I can pour the stupid out, the pointless. Later when I see people today I'll laugh and listen, probably hump somebody's leg. Carry on.
