doomoo
May 20th, Youth:
I was born today. Maybe not this year. But today.
June 14th, Youth:
Love has lost its sheen. The birthday was bloody. Told them all it was an accident. Wonder how they think 15 exactly same-sized wounds are possible through an accident. Age can seem any old statement seem sane.
April 4th, Youth:
It happened again. The dream. The paper cutter. Still with dry blood on it. The screaming in my soundproof music-cum-self-torture room. C’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon! The music cuts through me, way deeper than the stupid knife ever can. Je vous aime, je dois partir.
April 17th, Youth:
Road kill. Today it was just a dog. Still the flesh on my car seems to be morphing into fingers pointing at me, making it out to be the guy I might have run over years ago. It was just one glass of rum with some Cola. Couldn’t have been the drinks. The fucker shouldn’t have run across the road while I was blinded due to the overtake. I shouldn’t have fuckin’ pressed the pedal to the floor for the next 25 mins in sheer high speed panic. What could I have done if I had killed him? I had alcohol on my breath. Everyone lost. That bump still wakes me up at night. Was it a limb or a head?
April 20th, Youth:
I hear the shame through the day. Not just the night. What can you do to make up the fact that you might have killed some one and were too chicken to find out? Love is all around. Yeah right! Lord, send me an angel to protect me and hug me when I hold myself behind locked bathroom doors. The shame will always persist.
May 20th, Middle Age:
Birthdays. Tales of woe. Birth. Just reminds you that you were non-existent before this day. Makes you wonder when the last one will come, and what becomes of you after that. Will it be a shark bite or an avalanche or some stupid thing like cancer that makes you seem infinitely less heroic?
September 30th, Old age:
Lost my breath. It’s no laughing matter. No flashing life-in-a-moment, just a major reduction in brightness, contrast and volume. The movie of your life may be only a switched off fucking TV. What if death is nothing but a scam? What if you just… die? Where does that leave you and me and our stupid code of bloody living around in morals and shit?
February 11th, Old Age:
Anniversaries. What do they mean but the mathematical equivalent of anything important? Miss Jones and Mr Smith so and so did so and so this day. Big, fucking deal.
Diaries. What are they good for? Release? Or public thinking? Either way, this Live Journal is now dead. And so is its writer. Hello paper cutters, meet Mr. Radial artery.
Poll Rate this entry
I was born today. Maybe not this year. But today.
June 14th, Youth:
Love has lost its sheen. The birthday was bloody. Told them all it was an accident. Wonder how they think 15 exactly same-sized wounds are possible through an accident. Age can seem any old statement seem sane.
April 4th, Youth:
It happened again. The dream. The paper cutter. Still with dry blood on it. The screaming in my soundproof music-cum-self-torture room. C’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon! The music cuts through me, way deeper than the stupid knife ever can. Je vous aime, je dois partir.
April 17th, Youth:
Road kill. Today it was just a dog. Still the flesh on my car seems to be morphing into fingers pointing at me, making it out to be the guy I might have run over years ago. It was just one glass of rum with some Cola. Couldn’t have been the drinks. The fucker shouldn’t have run across the road while I was blinded due to the overtake. I shouldn’t have fuckin’ pressed the pedal to the floor for the next 25 mins in sheer high speed panic. What could I have done if I had killed him? I had alcohol on my breath. Everyone lost. That bump still wakes me up at night. Was it a limb or a head?
April 20th, Youth:
I hear the shame through the day. Not just the night. What can you do to make up the fact that you might have killed some one and were too chicken to find out? Love is all around. Yeah right! Lord, send me an angel to protect me and hug me when I hold myself behind locked bathroom doors. The shame will always persist.
May 20th, Middle Age:
Birthdays. Tales of woe. Birth. Just reminds you that you were non-existent before this day. Makes you wonder when the last one will come, and what becomes of you after that. Will it be a shark bite or an avalanche or some stupid thing like cancer that makes you seem infinitely less heroic?
September 30th, Old age:
Lost my breath. It’s no laughing matter. No flashing life-in-a-moment, just a major reduction in brightness, contrast and volume. The movie of your life may be only a switched off fucking TV. What if death is nothing but a scam? What if you just… die? Where does that leave you and me and our stupid code of bloody living around in morals and shit?
February 11th, Old Age:
Anniversaries. What do they mean but the mathematical equivalent of anything important? Miss Jones and Mr Smith so and so did so and so this day. Big, fucking deal.
Diaries. What are they good for? Release? Or public thinking? Either way, this Live Journal is now dead. And so is its writer. Hello paper cutters, meet Mr. Radial artery.
Poll Rate this entry