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Apr. 1st, 2005 02:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
phthalombragepast few days characterised by sitting, sleeping, lurking pvspeech, remembering art, dartmouth problem of the week, regrets... My life in websites.
et le vent du nord nous emporte
I love Calvin and Hobbes. Not John and Thomas, though.
I cried for T.S. Not for her body. Not for the shell of her that was left to die. Before she was married, she was "an ordinary girl." She collected Precious moments figurines. That sort of thing... I shatter. I can't look at men, though. If she were a little boy it would be different somehow. I want to contact Andrew Zoeller sometime when I grow a soul. Vulgarity disgusts me.
Was reading about feral children. People with extraordinary abilities. I thought of Lauren. She asked me today...She wonders if she is psychic or psychotic. My brother even, he says that the human mind is capable of things beyond us all. I'm worried about what I do in my sleep. If an alien appeared behind me, I'd go insane.
Residual memories lurk in houses as ghosts. I feel like I will be haunting something somewhere... someone? I never thought my toys were real. I never thought of my face as an instrument. It poses. I cannot be owned. A raccoon remains. "I think animals are always so cute."
I don't feel sorry for people. I do, but I don't tell them. I don't require them to feel sorry for me. They pretend to, though, because I look sad. Sometimes I'm not even aware that I am sad. And then I inadvertently offend them since I hate emoticons.
I want to write some poetry, but depressing poetry sucks. I want to paint a picture, but cartoonish things suck.
The crackpot theories of Spring Break existence. Quotidian groanings.
Here I am not safe. The walls oppress me. Sterility. Light. Machines.
If I went on an expedition, to explore the sewer tunnels or the like, I'd have to bring people. Mostly, to convince myself that my mind was not creating the illusions. Then I would cling. Hypothetical figures.
April Fool's. They play the jokes that are lost on me. Holidays are so dull.
I like elaborate plans that surprise me.
I am seriously retarded. Mentally, physically, you name it. I named it Albert.
I really don't miss Tay. I don't need anything like that. Should I be sorry?
Color psychology, among other things to stumble upon. I need to do my homework. I need to be a good girl.
Terri always smiled. Smiling is for coopf. I don't know what drag turned into. He appreciates finance. He's headed straight to hell in a tin basket, too.
I felt confident last night going to sleep. Was so weird. My heart was hyperactive.And the outside world replies...
I wonder if, when I get out of my cage, I'll think about where the bread came from. Why are my thoughts related with such marzipan spiderweb connections? Why can't I bring myself to make voluntary spelling errors?
15 is certainly an age. The Age d'Or, certainly not. Wonder what it will amount to in my life. I miss the past. I yearn for the future. I sit through the present. Then I worry that I'll screw everything up.
Yeah, it's a repository. Things falling into the toilet that were supposed to be sterile. Psychological wasteland like the shadow of the Media Center. Problem with my thoughts is they're so obsucre and specific. Nothing to relate to the human experience in general. Uncouthly, I sleep on top of the armoire to avoid making noises? Madame always catches me.
I'm ashamed of what I type. I'm ashamed of what I am. Embarrassed. Paralysing.
Not the good kind anymore. The space between decreases. That captured what I was thinking more than I had imagined.
Postmodernism. Describing the mundane, the benign, the banal. Breaking frivolous concerns once thought so serious, the acceptable form. Readjust the biostat and decompose again to organic forms. Carrot-grape trees and other flukes of composting. A toenail on the sticker of the lemon floating in my icewater.
I only want to drink plain water.
My brain devolves. Attention was captivated so readily by my lit book, only to find that I had lost my sheet of adjectives. I will track it down. Who in their right mind would hunt for THOSE? All they want is to cruise for chicks and bust ghosts and chops and balls.
And here is my arm.
I want a digital camera for Christmas. I usually don't want things. I won't mind if I don't get one. I want to manipulate the images. Grammatical structures that I now doubt race through my one-track mind. Modifiers.
I never noticed that the TV was on. The subliminal messages couldn't have been beneficial. Infomercials. I accidentally signed my doodle Satan and my popup blocker is still at 666. Silly superstition. Tabasco and all his other pellet-stuffed buddies. Magnum.
I expect someone to be watching. It's all a show. It's not for me. Why should it be? Often I have a target that may never cross my purpose. I care what the world thinks. I apologise and back away. The mercury falls.
et le vent du nord nous emporte
I love Calvin and Hobbes. Not John and Thomas, though.
I cried for T.S. Not for her body. Not for the shell of her that was left to die. Before she was married, she was "an ordinary girl." She collected Precious moments figurines. That sort of thing... I shatter. I can't look at men, though. If she were a little boy it would be different somehow. I want to contact Andrew Zoeller sometime when I grow a soul. Vulgarity disgusts me.
Was reading about feral children. People with extraordinary abilities. I thought of Lauren. She asked me today...She wonders if she is psychic or psychotic. My brother even, he says that the human mind is capable of things beyond us all. I'm worried about what I do in my sleep. If an alien appeared behind me, I'd go insane.
Residual memories lurk in houses as ghosts. I feel like I will be haunting something somewhere... someone? I never thought my toys were real. I never thought of my face as an instrument. It poses. I cannot be owned. A raccoon remains. "I think animals are always so cute."
I don't feel sorry for people. I do, but I don't tell them. I don't require them to feel sorry for me. They pretend to, though, because I look sad. Sometimes I'm not even aware that I am sad. And then I inadvertently offend them since I hate emoticons.
I want to write some poetry, but depressing poetry sucks. I want to paint a picture, but cartoonish things suck.
The crackpot theories of Spring Break existence. Quotidian groanings.
Here I am not safe. The walls oppress me. Sterility. Light. Machines.
If I went on an expedition, to explore the sewer tunnels or the like, I'd have to bring people. Mostly, to convince myself that my mind was not creating the illusions. Then I would cling. Hypothetical figures.
April Fool's. They play the jokes that are lost on me. Holidays are so dull.
I like elaborate plans that surprise me.
I am seriously retarded. Mentally, physically, you name it. I named it Albert.
I really don't miss Tay. I don't need anything like that. Should I be sorry?
Color psychology, among other things to stumble upon. I need to do my homework. I need to be a good girl.
Terri always smiled. Smiling is for coopf. I don't know what drag turned into. He appreciates finance. He's headed straight to hell in a tin basket, too.
I felt confident last night going to sleep. Was so weird. My heart was hyperactive.And the outside world replies...
I wonder if, when I get out of my cage, I'll think about where the bread came from. Why are my thoughts related with such marzipan spiderweb connections? Why can't I bring myself to make voluntary spelling errors?
15 is certainly an age. The Age d'Or, certainly not. Wonder what it will amount to in my life. I miss the past. I yearn for the future. I sit through the present. Then I worry that I'll screw everything up.
Yeah, it's a repository. Things falling into the toilet that were supposed to be sterile. Psychological wasteland like the shadow of the Media Center. Problem with my thoughts is they're so obsucre and specific. Nothing to relate to the human experience in general. Uncouthly, I sleep on top of the armoire to avoid making noises? Madame always catches me.
I'm ashamed of what I type. I'm ashamed of what I am. Embarrassed. Paralysing.
Not the good kind anymore. The space between decreases. That captured what I was thinking more than I had imagined.
Postmodernism. Describing the mundane, the benign, the banal. Breaking frivolous concerns once thought so serious, the acceptable form. Readjust the biostat and decompose again to organic forms. Carrot-grape trees and other flukes of composting. A toenail on the sticker of the lemon floating in my icewater.
I only want to drink plain water.
My brain devolves. Attention was captivated so readily by my lit book, only to find that I had lost my sheet of adjectives. I will track it down. Who in their right mind would hunt for THOSE? All they want is to cruise for chicks and bust ghosts and chops and balls.
And here is my arm.
I want a digital camera for Christmas. I usually don't want things. I won't mind if I don't get one. I want to manipulate the images. Grammatical structures that I now doubt race through my one-track mind. Modifiers.
I never noticed that the TV was on. The subliminal messages couldn't have been beneficial. Infomercials. I accidentally signed my doodle Satan and my popup blocker is still at 666. Silly superstition. Tabasco and all his other pellet-stuffed buddies. Magnum.
I expect someone to be watching. It's all a show. It's not for me. Why should it be? Often I have a target that may never cross my purpose. I care what the world thinks. I apologise and back away. The mercury falls.
