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symbioidljSo, I rarely ever post any thing heartfelt. Anything beyond a mere "Fuck you, W" or "check this site out" or whatever. Maybe once in a great while, I may post some sort of theory I've been mulling around in my skull, but that's about it.
Today, however, I think I may just say emotional things. Things that are about me. It seems so contrived to do it in such a forum, but it's a journal, it's supposed to be some release.
I've been building up so much for a few weeks now, and have no clue why. Just a general frustration with life. Some things have been said to me from some people, never meant to be bad, and I take offense to them... Or rather, I get defensive.
I want to talk about it all, but yet, I feel that it's still something that's private. eh.
I'll post a reply to a reply to one of my posts(Brent... watch for it), but that's just one of them. A somewhat hurtful comment was made, an untrusting one, one that I normally could understand, but for some reason I was hurt.
Today, I felt nauseous(sp?)... Thanks Taco Bell... I began to feel this full, bloated, very subtle spinning in my gut, and it was sort of like the discomfort from mushrooms. But not that severe. And I began to think of how I would feel if that's what I always felt like. What would it be if I always suffered some strange feelings. Bothersome, annoying... What if I were always dizzy. What if I were always in pain in my muscles. What if my nerves always tingled, and I felt like insects were crawling on me. What if my body parts went to sleep all the time? What, in other words, would it be like if I were my... "sweetie" or whatever words I'm supposed to call her,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sophy?
I admire her courage and strength and conviction. It's so easy for me to sit outside and pretend. To stare at the computer screen. It's so hard for her to say how she feels because she doesn't want to be a bother, and sometimes, yes, you don't want to hear a big sigh. But all that she holds in. All the pain. Words cannot convey my admiration and respect to her.
That's one thing said. I don't say it enough. I don't say it always with heartfelt conviction, because you can't always be saying something like that, but it should be said. And it's hard to say that you care without it sounding trite. But here it is.
And that said, I dunno. My sufferance seems all so shallow in retrospect. The other day, I tooknaiadea, our roommate, to work(last night, I believe it was), and as she was in the store, buying cat food before work, I sat there, really just taking in the world as I love to do, and rarely ever ever do often enough. I hide. I seclude myself. I am a hermit, yet I long for the fresh air, for bright sunny skies, for the drifting, dissolving clouds of being and becoming... The trees that have grown for years and years, and branching their fractaline patterns. The wondrous hues that surround. and so often I live in dark. This is my life. The phosphorescent glow of the CRT burning images of, ultimately, a Seinfeldian nothingness, some absurd mis-representation of reality, a distorted lens of culture. All sought out by me. But how many times can one hit the refresh button? How many times can one click a button and not go mad? The drive to create is not as bright as it used to be. I used to have something inside that continually pushed me, in a manic way to do more and more. And now, I just sit. Complacent. Sickened. Obese and ill in the head.
but the thing is, wallowing is fun. Not in pity, necessarily, but in the filth of being. In the wretched dirt of my house. Letting the dishes pile up, and never picking anything up.
But i hate it. I am lazy. I am a lazy fuck. I have pretty much always been lazy. If you've known me as long, as Tony, or... say...vesicular you know that's pretty much a solid fact. My mind enters worlds of words, but never images. I cannot read a book and truly imagine. This is why I have such a problem with most fiction. I try. I can do it a little bit, but I can't just close my eyes and vividly imaging what exactly is happening. Strange that I should have such a way of describing things, and I think I have an ability with words that can be very poetic, yet... when I read, I don't have it. I can't grasp fully what is going on. I can't read fast. I have to plod along and absorb every bit of information to understand what is going on.
It's 5:30, I should go home(Yeah, I've been typing for way too long, how about 20 minutes or so) I hope this posts or I'll be pissed...
Today, however, I think I may just say emotional things. Things that are about me. It seems so contrived to do it in such a forum, but it's a journal, it's supposed to be some release.
I've been building up so much for a few weeks now, and have no clue why. Just a general frustration with life. Some things have been said to me from some people, never meant to be bad, and I take offense to them... Or rather, I get defensive.
I want to talk about it all, but yet, I feel that it's still something that's private. eh.
I'll post a reply to a reply to one of my posts(Brent... watch for it), but that's just one of them. A somewhat hurtful comment was made, an untrusting one, one that I normally could understand, but for some reason I was hurt.
Today, I felt nauseous(sp?)... Thanks Taco Bell... I began to feel this full, bloated, very subtle spinning in my gut, and it was sort of like the discomfort from mushrooms. But not that severe. And I began to think of how I would feel if that's what I always felt like. What would it be if I always suffered some strange feelings. Bothersome, annoying... What if I were always dizzy. What if I were always in pain in my muscles. What if my nerves always tingled, and I felt like insects were crawling on me. What if my body parts went to sleep all the time? What, in other words, would it be like if I were my... "sweetie" or whatever words I'm supposed to call her,
sophy?I admire her courage and strength and conviction. It's so easy for me to sit outside and pretend. To stare at the computer screen. It's so hard for her to say how she feels because she doesn't want to be a bother, and sometimes, yes, you don't want to hear a big sigh. But all that she holds in. All the pain. Words cannot convey my admiration and respect to her.
That's one thing said. I don't say it enough. I don't say it always with heartfelt conviction, because you can't always be saying something like that, but it should be said. And it's hard to say that you care without it sounding trite. But here it is.
And that said, I dunno. My sufferance seems all so shallow in retrospect. The other day, I took
naiadea, our roommate, to work(last night, I believe it was), and as she was in the store, buying cat food before work, I sat there, really just taking in the world as I love to do, and rarely ever ever do often enough. I hide. I seclude myself. I am a hermit, yet I long for the fresh air, for bright sunny skies, for the drifting, dissolving clouds of being and becoming... The trees that have grown for years and years, and branching their fractaline patterns. The wondrous hues that surround. and so often I live in dark. This is my life. The phosphorescent glow of the CRT burning images of, ultimately, a Seinfeldian nothingness, some absurd mis-representation of reality, a distorted lens of culture. All sought out by me. But how many times can one hit the refresh button? How many times can one click a button and not go mad? The drive to create is not as bright as it used to be. I used to have something inside that continually pushed me, in a manic way to do more and more. And now, I just sit. Complacent. Sickened. Obese and ill in the head.but the thing is, wallowing is fun. Not in pity, necessarily, but in the filth of being. In the wretched dirt of my house. Letting the dishes pile up, and never picking anything up.
But i hate it. I am lazy. I am a lazy fuck. I have pretty much always been lazy. If you've known me as long, as Tony, or... say...
vesicular you know that's pretty much a solid fact. My mind enters worlds of words, but never images. I cannot read a book and truly imagine. This is why I have such a problem with most fiction. I try. I can do it a little bit, but I can't just close my eyes and vividly imaging what exactly is happening. Strange that I should have such a way of describing things, and I think I have an ability with words that can be very poetic, yet... when I read, I don't have it. I can't grasp fully what is going on. I can't read fast. I have to plod along and absorb every bit of information to understand what is going on.It's 5:30, I should go home(Yeah, I've been typing for way too long, how about 20 minutes or so) I hope this posts or I'll be pissed...
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shallow?
Date: 2003-06-30 07:21 pm (UTC)I don't know dude. I've had the Taco Bell shits before, and let me tell you, it's nothing to squawk at.
no subject
Date: 2003-06-30 10:35 pm (UTC)In a way that's almost a fault of mine, I think too much. It's almost like I care more about analyzing, discussing, debating an issue or topic than the topic itself. I guess my convictions aren't as strong as most. And perhaps that makes my wording come across the wrong way.
But anyway, I certainly don't think it's trite to say you care. I've always cared about you and thought you were really cool even when some people thought you were weird (like, say, Sara Brunette ;). I mean, who the fuck isn't wierd in their own way? What I've always liked about you is that you're honest about yourself and who you are, and you don't expect others to be just like you. You question yourself and who you are and you're place in the world, and I think that's a good thing. Most people don't, which is why there are a lot of people out there with this wonderful facade that are a wreck inside.
What I've always found interesting is that even though we have differences of opinion on some things, have different likes/dislikes, and lead different lives, we seem to have a great connection were it counts. It's like we understand and respect each other dispite our differences. I think this just shows in the they way me, you and Tony can all give each other crap and it's just all in good fun. I think we understand each other in ways most people don't. I think that's something special.
Anyway, I'm probably rambling at this point (it's late). But as for the computer thing, it's hard to unplug, I know, I basicaly lost a relationship once because of it. It's like an addiction, and at this point I can see that enough to know when the addictive qualities of the net and computers are taking me over. It's like I've been to hell and back on this thing. The sad thing is, when I'm away from my computer for an extended period of time, it sucks. But then I adjust, I find new things to pay attention to, and it's like a whole new door opening in life and it feels so good. But once the computer comes back, I'm right back in, sucked into it.
It's almost like exercise. Once you do it for a while it feels so good, you feel so much better, but once you stop, it's just so much easier to be lazy, so who cares if you feel like shit. Anyway, thanks for writing what you did. We need to chat more, perhaps this weblog stuff is just too impersonal. Or maybe my English just sucks. ;)