Who'd have thought that a song called "Crazy Bitch" could seem so romantic? This side of a good night's sleep, it doesn't, except for that odd memory. Still haven't decoded that funny look... but I'm pretty sure I'm not imagining it now.
So maybe I'm walking the razor's edge, given history, and its unsettling habit of repeating itself. In terms of "what might have been" there's quite a bit. Maybe it still could be, but I doubt it. We're not who we were. Maybe it feels so safe because its not, the same way that some things feel so scary because for once there's nothing to be afraid of. Another chip off the ol' shell, I suppose.
Yes, it's a hellhole, but dammit, it's my hellhole. I guess that's why I smiled all day today. When I wouldn't last night... or couldn't.
Relative reality... hm, there's a concept I could sink my teeth into. Nothing more than what you can perceive exists, or even if it did, you wouldn't notice it. The only truth you can find is the one you come up with yourself.
Keep dreaming.
Daydream Believer
How can I fit so many labels onto such a short post? Metaphors and total lack of clarity!
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
25 and Sunny
In response to Loud, I hadn't really thought about what kind of motorcycle... preferably one in a relatively un-motorcycle-like colour... like hot pink or something like that. Or maybe a red one... but aside from that, one that runs would be a good start, I think.
I call her Siren for different reasons. Her song tempted me, drew me out of myself and towards her only to dash those initial thoughts on the sharp rocks surrounding her. Reminding me why I was never cut out to be a sailor. As much as the song haunted me, it told me a lot about her as well, maybe a little more than she wanted me to know. She made me sing, when I was afraid, and for that I owe her a lot. Although I doubt she knows it. I hated her for a time, a hate fueled by jealousy, loneliness, and misunderstanding. And then I sailed away on the ripples of those small words that meant so much, and here I am, standing upright and unmystified, like a four-year-old marking her height on the door frame.
I'm sure Freud would have something to say about the funny dreams. I blame it on change of diet, actually getting as much sleep as I should, and the number of detective shows I'm watching. Maybe not so much that last one, but you get the idea.
Anyways, it's sunny and warm outside, so I'm going to rip myself off the computer chair and go outside. If anybody feels like joining me, feel free. It's too pretty a day to be by yourself.
Daydream Believer
I call her Siren for different reasons. Her song tempted me, drew me out of myself and towards her only to dash those initial thoughts on the sharp rocks surrounding her. Reminding me why I was never cut out to be a sailor. As much as the song haunted me, it told me a lot about her as well, maybe a little more than she wanted me to know. She made me sing, when I was afraid, and for that I owe her a lot. Although I doubt she knows it. I hated her for a time, a hate fueled by jealousy, loneliness, and misunderstanding. And then I sailed away on the ripples of those small words that meant so much, and here I am, standing upright and unmystified, like a four-year-old marking her height on the door frame.
I'm sure Freud would have something to say about the funny dreams. I blame it on change of diet, actually getting as much sleep as I should, and the number of detective shows I'm watching. Maybe not so much that last one, but you get the idea.
Anyways, it's sunny and warm outside, so I'm going to rip myself off the computer chair and go outside. If anybody feels like joining me, feel free. It's too pretty a day to be by yourself.
Daydream Believer
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Regime
It really isn't the time for numbers. Especially since I've always said I didn't care about them. I did. Not about them, per se, but about what they represent. 155 really doesn't mean a thing until you put it into context. Nor does 125. Or 106. But every time I read those three numbers, I assign a significance to them.
At least she's supportive this time. I took drastic measures before. Not even really on purpose. Back in the black eyeliner days. I call them that, but I still wear black eyeliner. Just not like that. But I did take those drastic measures, and nobody even noticed. So either they just don't pay attention, or the drastic measures were a futile exercise. Either way, I didn't get what I wanted. So here we go again. I think my body's starting to rebel, started even before I started this madness. Or maybe I'm simply hormonal. It does happen.
So dismiss this, if you wish, as the ramblings of someone who doesn't know what she's talking about. Someone who's only ever walked the straight and narrow. Someone who's never rebelled against anything. Because that's what I'm doing isn't it? Accepting the arbitrary restrictions, not fighting anything except myself, my own needs and desires. Conforming. Means to an end is a common defense. I'm never going to be the means to anyone's end again if I've got anything to say about it. I'm takin my own means, to the end I want. Finally. A little dash of control.
It's cold. I don't care. It's not the reckless, wild "I don't care" of there's something more important, it's just the simple truth. The feeling of nothing more important. I want to be important, I just realized. That's not something I tend to say. It's unseemly. But at the same time, I don't think I can help it. Maybe that's what this bit of karma's for. Because, horror of all horrors, I want to be important. Could be that all these inane motions are the channels I try to go through to be important. Maybe I will be someday. But for now, it's cold, and I really don't care. That one was a little reckless.
Reckless, undue risk, maybe while I'm in this mood I should learn to drive a motorcycle. I've always wanted to. It's not rational, it's not safe. It would piss off a couple handfuls of people I could name without thinking too hard. Maybe that's why I've always wanted to do it.
Sticks and stones. I really wish I knew what that look meant. Before you leap headlong into lake conclusion, it isn't that look. A small, twisted, probably very wrong part of me definitely wishes it was, but it isn't. And I'm not just saying that because if it was, it would shatter too many boundaries and foundations to think about the repercussions. It's just a look I can't figure out. Maybe it's different every time. It might be a question. The "I want to ask but..." look. Can't think of what the question is though. I don't have too many secrets anymore, and the ones I've got are solidly buried under mountains of meaningless trivia. Like an extremely complex calculation, much as I hate to compare myself to math, one of those nearly-endless problems that you have the final equation for but have to go through three or four equations to find each one of the values that go into it. Maybe that kind of equation doesn't actually exist and I'm just rambling. As always, I wish I understood that which I don't.
I would so like to be an optimist. Maybe that's why they say I'm crazy.
That's what I'd like to say to the subtle-as-a-train-wreck kick in the pants. How can you stand doing and saying these things, and drag yourself out of bed in the morning, knowing what you know?
Pascal's wager really isn't my thing, but maybe there is something I can't find. I don't know why some believe and some don't. And I don't have a name for what I believe or don't believe, as the case may be. I guess for now I'm working on the "When I know, I'll know" assumption. Fear or no fear.
Tragedy is when an individual is unwilling or unable to connect to their surroundings and society. Well, maybe this is where I try to connect.
Wireless network found!?
Daydream Believer
At least she's supportive this time. I took drastic measures before. Not even really on purpose. Back in the black eyeliner days. I call them that, but I still wear black eyeliner. Just not like that. But I did take those drastic measures, and nobody even noticed. So either they just don't pay attention, or the drastic measures were a futile exercise. Either way, I didn't get what I wanted. So here we go again. I think my body's starting to rebel, started even before I started this madness. Or maybe I'm simply hormonal. It does happen.
So dismiss this, if you wish, as the ramblings of someone who doesn't know what she's talking about. Someone who's only ever walked the straight and narrow. Someone who's never rebelled against anything. Because that's what I'm doing isn't it? Accepting the arbitrary restrictions, not fighting anything except myself, my own needs and desires. Conforming. Means to an end is a common defense. I'm never going to be the means to anyone's end again if I've got anything to say about it. I'm takin my own means, to the end I want. Finally. A little dash of control.
It's cold. I don't care. It's not the reckless, wild "I don't care" of there's something more important, it's just the simple truth. The feeling of nothing more important. I want to be important, I just realized. That's not something I tend to say. It's unseemly. But at the same time, I don't think I can help it. Maybe that's what this bit of karma's for. Because, horror of all horrors, I want to be important. Could be that all these inane motions are the channels I try to go through to be important. Maybe I will be someday. But for now, it's cold, and I really don't care. That one was a little reckless.
Reckless, undue risk, maybe while I'm in this mood I should learn to drive a motorcycle. I've always wanted to. It's not rational, it's not safe. It would piss off a couple handfuls of people I could name without thinking too hard. Maybe that's why I've always wanted to do it.
Sticks and stones. I really wish I knew what that look meant. Before you leap headlong into lake conclusion, it isn't that look. A small, twisted, probably very wrong part of me definitely wishes it was, but it isn't. And I'm not just saying that because if it was, it would shatter too many boundaries and foundations to think about the repercussions. It's just a look I can't figure out. Maybe it's different every time. It might be a question. The "I want to ask but..." look. Can't think of what the question is though. I don't have too many secrets anymore, and the ones I've got are solidly buried under mountains of meaningless trivia. Like an extremely complex calculation, much as I hate to compare myself to math, one of those nearly-endless problems that you have the final equation for but have to go through three or four equations to find each one of the values that go into it. Maybe that kind of equation doesn't actually exist and I'm just rambling. As always, I wish I understood that which I don't.
I would so like to be an optimist. Maybe that's why they say I'm crazy.
That's what I'd like to say to the subtle-as-a-train-wreck kick in the pants. How can you stand doing and saying these things, and drag yourself out of bed in the morning, knowing what you know?
Pascal's wager really isn't my thing, but maybe there is something I can't find. I don't know why some believe and some don't. And I don't have a name for what I believe or don't believe, as the case may be. I guess for now I'm working on the "When I know, I'll know" assumption. Fear or no fear.
Tragedy is when an individual is unwilling or unable to connect to their surroundings and society. Well, maybe this is where I try to connect.
Wireless network found!?
Daydream Believer
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