But before I begin, fuck fuck fuck fuck…
this is not the way today
i am not a wowy….wow
maybe i need my brain scanned
Start of BS
A modern artist is like a box of chocolates. Unfortunately, I seem to not be in a box of this sort, bu rather packaged into a bag of homogeneous, historical, unpopular Twizzlers. Perhaps due to my lack of formal art education or whatever, I never thought I needed to find a niche. My education is from reading text, visiting museums and galleries. Painting as art is sensual of course. I suppose I need to change my conventional approach, but I was expecting to do that after I got my break. I never got a break. Fate I guess.
What does becoming dispassionate have to do with living in hell? I don’t know. I can guess it is a method out, but I am unsure. I suppose it rings true, but is it serendipitous? The way out alternatively, is through hard American work; back-breaking, painkiller-taking hard work. The third option would be to play ignorant; continue taking my time, aloof attitude and wishy-washy way. I am not in hell. Things are moving forward in time for the sake of some unknown, unexplored future undertaking; the way I more or less currently think about my existence. The problem is not in the definition, but in the true experience. One is not certain of hell, unbeknownst. It carefully creeps in and leaves one bewildered. True knowledge of hell would precipitate change. True knowledge requires self-awareness. But there’s a double-edged sword. To become aware like that, puts one in a rather helpless state. Such horrid conditions would result in panic and anxiety unless the tools to quickly find passage out are available. There is mechanism of self-protection. Overwhelming realizations hardly occur. Usually a more subtle hint is given, at the expense of the individual not catching on. But still, words are not meaningful unless they resonate at the core. Thus one needs to increase self-realization slowly – to avoid self-annihilation – to determine this validity of such a hypothesis.
Every advantage in the past is judged in the light of the final issue.
My body itself is in despair. Thus the mind follows.
With such a high expectation and overwhelmed by desires, burning, burning, burning.
Those who are in a position to gain satisfaction often and
those who are failing to obtain. My therapist said, ‘you can
only do one thing at a tie.’ This is so true.
When reaching out to others seems like a big work, then
it’s better to pretend with the lord. That’s not much better,
unless you are willing to imagine. One’s personal history
dictates this possibility.
I don’t have the energy (patience) to make sense.
My brain is rotting from the schizo-like turmoil. The
Ultimately it’s just an energy thing.
And corrupted organs, eyes, liver, etc.
In my underwear going nowhere.
Too many texting buddies.
This is the new normal.
Agony is dumb, but I am more dumb.
I can’t do much. I can type the alphabet.
I can read about neurotransmitters. I can’t draw.
I can read about the different pathways. None of this.
My neck hurts and I screwed my fairly balanced dosha.
Now screwed up kapha. Now I have to take ashwagandha
to reduce the mucus built up in my brain. I don’t need this.
My father is the pill box, not me. What about these days?
So much chaos. The show must go on. Broken roads,
angry people, broken necks, no time for losers. Well, if
less is more than why is there so much more? Maybe b/c
if you make less more, then you always have more? Maybe
it’s time to get rid of less and just stick with more. Now you have
less right? More is less. I win! Let the good times roll!
If every heart was made of stone and pleasure wasn’t a boon,
I would conduct the gaps to fill themselves in with the same stuff
that makes memories worth making.
An interesting idea that good times are not winning
“can’t find any answers in the good times we had..”
the good times huh? maybe winning leads to good times. MAYBEAMERICANSAREOBSESSEDWITH….
How I learned nothing from my mistakes?
That is oui, and etre.
To be or not to be.
I swear if I ever binge again…
Inflammation of the liver is called something like cirrhosis.
I am a fooool, a waste of a bundle of energy.
I might be the worst writer in the whole world.
The whole internet world. I’ve never read much of a
bad writer like me on the internet. That life.
What is the point? The girls are even on parole.
The skunk doesn’t smell for me. I am an idiot!
dosha, i know not what i do
given the chance
i sleep in the hour ring the fish upon the shelf
sushi today! yummy…mediocre and meh
i don’t type more now in this mode .
I would feel less anxious about my mother’s death
if the society I live in wasn’t so skanky. In her bed
was no one. but the time is really a waste without a real place
in the society. You have to push forward either way, and waste words
like so many others do today. Join the resistance and make sense.
There is no resistance! Another neo-liberal movement pointing the finger
at one man when in fact, there are many millions.
I was going to compare the artist with the grocery store stocker. This is
a waste of time, but I think that in the night of days it doesn’t matter. But
let’s assume that I am not enchanted by the arts, but instead regular.
It’s obvious who takes priority. Survival. Art. Man-made art. Luxury items.
He’s an asshole, I think he’s the same person he was before his “mental
illness” kicked in. I can remember, or it’s just the same; we have a conflict,
me and him. But he’s even more annoying now; his new learned
behaviors are sickening. It’s a lack of inhibition which may have been caused
by benzo use, or he’s just more of an asshole now than before. Either way,
the social security check still pays the bill, so I’m shit out of luck.
She used to watch General Hospital on tapes after work.
I remember rewinding the tapes.
I don’t know why. What is the wisdom here? Hmm..it is just another
useless memory. But I suppose she worked hard and still enjoyed some
things that really don’t seem so luxurious right? Watching a soap opera
after a hard day of work doesn’t exactly seem like a fulfilling life. It doesn’t
get anywhere. The thought is not there. She lived for her children. That’s
a little sad, but what do I live for? I am the thing and I live for another chance.
To be or not to be, that is the question.