The West Wind

.same thing as my livejournal profile.

I'm not as happy as I was before.
I'm not as happy as I thought I was, anyway.
I'm not as happy as I want to be.

I don't know why.
I'm broken, shattered.
I'd like to say that I know exactly why, but I don't.
I don't know, but I'm guessing it's my fault anyway.

Because I always mess things up for myself.
Really, I do.
Yes, even when I don't want to.

So I'm probably the reason why I'm broken.
I'm malfunctioning again, selfish, pathetic, overemotional idiot that I am, and seeing as I'm the one who caused this...well, I'm pretty sure I won't be able to fix myself.

Except, well, the people who can fix me--I think I drove them all away. Not that I wanted to. I guess that's what I always end up doing, eventually.

Because I am useless.

Yeah. I'm not worth a damn to most people, anyway. There are some who are all clingy towards me, sometimes, but that's only when they need something. I dunno; some people must think of me as a hug dispenser. I know I give hugs to almost anyone, but you've got to understand, I need my dose of hugs too.

So, I dunno. I'm wandering off topic, but that's okay since I don't have a topic anyway. Oh, wait, is it supposed to be myself?

I'm a freak, a nerd, a geek, a snob, a person with borderline personality disorder, whatever you like. I'd want to fly, but most of the time I end up crashing, so I've learned not to expect anything of myself.

Most of the time when people approach me it's only because they need something from me. And I've already typed that. Right.

I crave for affection, acceptance, security, whatever you like. I'm emotionally unstable, that's why. So, once upon a time, there were some people who genuinely cared. But I saw that I was only depressing them, that I was making their lives so much harder for them, so I thought maybe I should just distance myself from them. So I did.

And that, I suppose, was the biggest mistake of my life.

And that too, I suppose, is why I'm adrift. Drifting, drifting, with nowhere to go and nothing to do. I've hit a dead end, I guess. I don't see the point anymore; I lost any semblance of having a proper life ages ago.

So I suppose that's why I'm suicidal. Yes, I'm suicidal, didn't you notice?

I'm suicidal but I'm too weak and cowardly to finally get it over with.

So I content myself with self-injury, cutting myself open and pouring alcohol inside the wounds, hoping that the pain is enough to make me feel something, and also enough to numb all other overwhelming emotions.

So I wanted to pick between life and death, and I ended up choosing a little bit of both.

That sums up my life, I guess. Situated somewhere on that line between really alive, and really dead. I'm neither. I'm one of those people with pointless lives, dying souls, empty smiles.

Call me weak, call me worthless, call me whatever you like.

Chances are, I deserve it.

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10.9.06
Thoughts in the Time of TextEdit

current mood: weird. i don't know.
current read: other people's blogs
current music: Hanging by a Moment by Lifehouse
what the heck i'm up to right now: thinking...and not doing homework.

I wonder if anyone ever thought of their blogs as contrived.
I wonder if you've ever thought of your blog as contrived.
I don't think so.
For you it might seem like your blog, in all its hosted glory, is a spontaneous display of thoughts and ideas arrived at while you were under the influence of inspiration (or maybe something more disagreeable...)
Or something like that.
I suppose thinking like that is natural: there's always the image of you typing away at some overused keyboard and siphoning all your thoughts out on the Web; launching a speeding train of thought, going, going, never stopping, never pausing, never looking back.
Except, well, when you think about it, you're not really doing that.
When you take into account all the times you did a frantic Google search to make sure you've got your facts right, you see that you're not really doing that.
When you take into account all those instances when you backspaced and re-typed something a hundred times until you thought your "readers" would find it acceptable, you realize you're not really doing that.
When you take into account all the hours you spend making sure your post (and your blog) looks just right, you notice you're not really doing that.
I suppose it's because you're aware that people actually know your blog exists--you don't trade links for nothing, after all.
Maybe it's also got something to do with the tagboard or cbox or flashbox (whatever) you've probably got somewhere; your tagboard or cbox or flashbox that visitors leave their comments on.
Maybe it's something else...
Because you know that some people who read your blog, don't know you personally--they could easily judge you by what you write. And the ones who do know you, might just change their opinions about you once they see some thoughts they aren't really fond of.
So maybe that's it.
Maybe that's why you type never-ending drafts on MS Word, or Notepad, or TextEdit, or whatever text editor, waiting hours at a time for the perfect paragraph to copy-paste, re-read, revise, delete.

I'm not saying it's bad, all that revising and obsessing (well, maybe the obsession part is a tad unhealthy...). We've all got to take readers and such into account, after all.
I'm just pointing out that it contradicts most people's impressions that their blogs are spontaneous works of art. Like they just got up in the middle of the night and typed away.
Yeah right.
We all know how much thought goes into each post (each quality post. Carp comes naturally, that's not something you take hours to write). We all know how much backspacing goes into each post.
So there.
Just shattering another myth for you. ;P
...So much for the speeding train of thought.
_______
This post, made in 2 hours, 15 minutes.

followed the wind; _{12:50 PM}

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The Hollow Men
T. S. Eliot (1925)

I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.