talking of Michaelangelo.
Monday, December 18, 2017
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// 8:11 pm
I feel so unhappy. I feel like I am inside something I am not a part of and nobody cares about. I feel like I am alone in this. I hate it. I don't want it anymore if it is this way. I would rather not have it and not have to answer questions and feel this way about it. I have made a big mistake because we are both so selfish and we shouldn't do this. I want no part of it anymore.
Wednesday, December 13, 2017
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late night popcorn // 4:34 am
(My god why tf am I up?)
Insomnia got jealous of my exhaustion.
Here the children play their games
But we are all naive stupid stupid children all playing our own games
Instead of playing games with our fingers amd feelings we play on what we think is a higher level
What is the point?
What is the point?
Monday, December 11, 2017
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master class act // 12:07 pm
And now ladies and gentlemen, I have taken my bow, I have finished my performance and now for the final act, I will do the most highly anticipated act of them all. I will do the great disappearing act.
Because people come and go, speaking of Michelangelo, but he is dead. And though his paintings remain hanging, the coming and going is a fact of life and pausing there in that room is some farcical pretense. What and who do we care about? When they leave you, gave they changed or not changed you? And after the filtering and the distilling of thoughts after thoughts and memories of memories, who does it make you?
You are left but you left too.
It's some kind of existential joke, when you were all in a room together and knew each other and laughed and cried together and then you all leave with the laughter still on your lips and your tears not even cried or dried and you think, what was the point of that and who does that make us and will we ever meet again?
"Time will tell," he said.
[Exeunt all]
Sunday, December 03, 2017
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time loop // 4:07 pm
the people who come,
will go
the people you meet,
won't stay
yet the sun
it rises then sets
relentlessly
ashes to ashes, dust to dust
the misty sky
the garish light
the scattering,
then the washing away
unceremonious
ceremonies
returning to the soil
and you are no more
I am a nobody, nobody.
said Pessoa
I am a nobody, nobody.
it goes on without you
you haven't even made a wrinkle,
not even a tremor because
the people won't even
pause after you are gone