- i’m angry at myself now.
- i know i’m a delight and i should be happy that people are willing to see past the pretentious exterior
- and i am, most days
- but on the very bad days
- like today
- i see you shits for what you are
- ogling, desecrated, sympathetic
- and then i turn around and i know that’s not true
- and i feel bad when you do leave
- but i’m too proud to tell you to come back.
- i don’t know what’s worse.
- the crippling anxiety
- or the pride that comes with it.
For someone who seems so committed to the idea of tolerance, you’re frankly quite intolerant, for all the wrong reasons. Not everyone is a terrible person, and not everyone owes you something. You act too presumptuously in your belief of give and take, but even the legitimacy of an awful past doesn’t give you an automatic right to assume that you’ve earned anything.
So I’ve been trying to do some sit ups again, lately, to get rid of this layer of fat around my stomach/abdomen region. You know how people, when they’re doing repetitive activities, tend to keep count of how many they can do, right? “I aim for two hundred sit ups, thirty laps around the pool, ten kilometres on the treadmill.” Why? Doesn’t it just make the time spent feel longer and more tedious? Or do they like measuring the effort they put in so as to make it seem more worthwhile? Because it was so dull, because I’m no longer the child I used to be who was interested in the pure act of growing with the numbers, if I aimed for something like one hundred sit ups, I’d count to twenty-five, and repeat the act three more times. Maybe I’m doing it wrong though. If you keep looping forwards and backwards, you won’t be able to see your own progress, and maybe you’ll only end up giving up more quickly. (“I’ve already done three counts of twenty-five, that’s close enough to four. I guess I’m done for today.”) If you do something from beginning to end, perhaps, with the aim of one hundred, if you get to eighty, you’ll think of the twenty left, and the hope will keep you enduring until the end. Or maybe neither is too good. Because if you think of the twenty left, then you’ll imagine it as two groupings of ten, or four groupings of five, which would be a tactic similar to your first choice/reasoning, and maybe it will make the time pass faster. There is no easy answer, for anything, in this life.
It becomes clearer to me every day.
"Today was a very long and unpredictable day. It rained during the morning, and snowed at night. It seems like a lie that we had to use the umbrella during the day and, at night when rolling the briquette, enough to make a snowman out of it, it began to snow in large flakes. Then, today did it rain, or would it be more appropriate for us to say that it snowed? Today, did it rain in your life, or did it snow? A weatherman once said - if you draw a snowman, then you’re someone whose heart melts easily; and if you’re someone who draws an umbrella, then you’re longing to be with a loved one under that same umbrella. We, are lonely people, aren’t we? We are."
“Is Jonze reworking his own personal history? In his ex-wife Sofia Coppola’s ‘Lost in Translation’ (where Coppola’s alter-ego is played by Johansson—a bizarre coincidence?), the husband (a music video director) is oblivious to his wife’s alienation. ‘Her’ is an admission of that obliviousness and a lament for it.”
Nell - 지구가 태양을 네번 (Four Times Around the Sun) (“Newton’s Apple”, 2014)
I swore at him. When he didn’t respond, I glared accusingly and raised my voice. The people around us were faceless, slow-moving blurs like used-up match sticks. Black shadows with specks of white where their eyes should be, absent fire and absent minds. He was bald and I was angry; I hated the rumors he whispered about me, baseless but filling in the cracks of what people didn’t know about me like wet cement. Like a lighted dome, his head, featureless as well. We stood there face to face at the ends of a pointed arch; I didn’t know what to do with my hands, but he pulled out a gun. Muzzle two metres away, a wordless sudden pull, a bang that wasn’t really heard. Fictional. But it was there. An explosion in my neck that was theoretically wet, but felt like a warm bath without the water. I wasn’t swearing anymore, I couldn’t even keep my eyes open enough to glare. The people around us had faces, they always did, I had just been too self-centred and distraught to give them details and a life. They filled my peripheral with threads of black and grey, and visions of his head began to fade into a concentrated pinpoint of white. I accepted the concept of my death only because I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t struggle to speak, but I still wanted to live, if only because the world, whilst living, placates you with the idea that you deserve life, even if for a while. I closed my eyes. I thought I heard a baby cry. I thought that baby was me.
I would hate to be ordinary, even though unfortunately that’s exactly what I am.
sorry i’m late, professor. im disenchanted with the human experience and waking up every morning thrusts me into an instant existential crisis
What the fuck is love. I’ve never known it.
사람12사람 - 빗물구름태풍태양 (Raindrop, Cloud, Typhoon and the Sun) (EP, 2013, Young Gifted & Wack Records)
every so often, dreams linger more than life does
my dreams have lights that will not flicker on;
every so often when I wake up to use the bathroom,
the lights will not flicker on.
life is prevalent
until the day you refuse to let it,
and you remember your dreams
until the days when you would prefer to forget.
both are important, and are sometimes unhealthy.
it’s up to you to keep the balance
and not to let either overwhelm you,
I'm not sad, I'm tired.
I slept too much today.