What the fuck!?
Irrespective of their power, the moments always lapse. In spite of invaluable friendships that carry me to this here and now, I remain bound to self-imposed outsider status. I feel like I belong more here than there, but am overwhelmed by the haunting sense that I still don't belong anywhere. At the end of too many days reigns the sensation of a missed connection so profound that it feels like failed opportunity before it's even presented itself. And my having said all of this will not change the fact that at the end of the day, the feelings that dominate are expressed in the first person singular.
Momentarily
Thoughts scribed here - now in words - are already too far removed from their original conception; not being expressed. Even if the essence is the same, something is hidden behind words, imprisoned by obscurity for so long that perhaps that certain something doesn't even occupy the hidden space anymore.
Words are evaporating ideas. Because certainty is in silence, their resonance is elusive.
Somebody said that words are only really good for avoiding the truth. I dunno; that's a tough one. I don't think there'll be enough evidence to determine that until well after the last lie has been told or the truth has been laid to rest once and for all. Not until the last desire chokes the last survivor to a bitter and lonely, circuitous death. Either way, it doesn't look all that good.
For our feelings might be killing us and as soon as they cross our lips, or appear from the ends of our fingertips, they've already done their damage. And, anyway, I can't whittle, dissect, dissemble, shape, sculpt, or apparently even savor. What? The? Fuck?
Perspektiefa
As the days pile up, so do the weeks and months and years, and all of my memory gets lost in there somewhere. Someone else said that we can't truly remember. That memory is a lie. I'm not so sure. To confirm such an astonishingly simple yet still astonishing supposition we'd have to remember exclusively in real time. And then we wouldn't be remembering, now would we? Whichever way you look at it, chances are - you still can't keep the events in order.
Tell me how you really feel. I can't. What the fucking fuck?
I like to think that I care. Unfortunately, caring is for worriers who have nothing better to do with their time than self-flagellate their psyche with a caterwauling o' nine voices. So when I do say that I actually care I am giving voice to all of the lies which have come to represent a truth I can only know without uttering a word; before the voices cry out for expression. Don't everybody talk at fucking once!
Irrespective of their power, the moments always lapse. In spite of invaluable friendships that carry me to this here and now, I remain bound to self-imposed outsider status. I feel like I belong more here than there, but am overwhelmed by the haunting sense that I still don't belong anywhere. At the end of too many days reigns the sensation of a missed connection so profound that it feels like failed opportunity before it's even presented itself. And my having said all of this will not change the fact that at the end of the day, the feelings that dominate are expressed in the first person singular.
Momentarily
Thoughts scribed here - now in words - are already too far removed from their original conception; not being expressed. Even if the essence is the same, something is hidden behind words, imprisoned by obscurity for so long that perhaps that certain something doesn't even occupy the hidden space anymore.
Words are evaporating ideas. Because certainty is in silence, their resonance is elusive.
Somebody said that words are only really good for avoiding the truth. I dunno; that's a tough one. I don't think there'll be enough evidence to determine that until well after the last lie has been told or the truth has been laid to rest once and for all. Not until the last desire chokes the last survivor to a bitter and lonely, circuitous death. Either way, it doesn't look all that good.
For our feelings might be killing us and as soon as they cross our lips, or appear from the ends of our fingertips, they've already done their damage. And, anyway, I can't whittle, dissect, dissemble, shape, sculpt, or apparently even savor. What? The? Fuck?
Perspektiefa
As the days pile up, so do the weeks and months and years, and all of my memory gets lost in there somewhere. Someone else said that we can't truly remember. That memory is a lie. I'm not so sure. To confirm such an astonishingly simple yet still astonishing supposition we'd have to remember exclusively in real time. And then we wouldn't be remembering, now would we? Whichever way you look at it, chances are - you still can't keep the events in order.
Tell me how you really feel. I can't. What the fucking fuck?
I like to think that I care. Unfortunately, caring is for worriers who have nothing better to do with their time than self-flagellate their psyche with a caterwauling o' nine voices. So when I do say that I actually care I am giving voice to all of the lies which have come to represent a truth I can only know without uttering a word; before the voices cry out for expression. Don't everybody talk at fucking once!
