typing, typing till we are pixel sick...
finding little pockets of focus. they feel good and that feeling lasts for a bit but then it dissipates. i feel broken. i don't see a path forward. i don't see myself completing anything. i couldn't help but share your despair after reading your poem. i tried lying in bed in silence for a while. to dissipate the fear and anxiety. im always listening to something. i have to stop that. it is so hard…
Feeling better, still unbelievably depressed, brain still scattered. Read a little. Copied out a poem. Took some notes. Broke my rotting routine at least. I remember now. This is the poem I read out once in a voice call. At first I thought it was another one. Neruda Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example, 'The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'…
preparing, meditating waiting but never arriving angry at myself just for the emotional high soothing myself flirting with you you fall in love with my wasted potential write porn for me you beg and you are so easy to write for we type all night but I love you I love you I love you is not a conversation
leaving zeroes in the diary you gave me not eating not eating well you leave a dull wake pulsing achingly into consciousness your face your name my stomach turns from stress I cannot sleep your face stares into mine your name echoes cruelly trapped in echoes to no one
i. you say you are passably pretty I say I am passably alive we hold self-hatred in a death grip ii. tears hesitating tears in straight lines dying on our lips like thirst iii. when our grip finally weakens we panic and it creates just enough space for obsession
i. typing, typing till we are pixel sick drowning in obsession we can’t do mellow we prefer to rot in this room of mirrors re-reading the words that made us sick ii. muse for muse mirror against mirror we talk about writing poetry so we don’t have to whisper you mimic my style self-portraits effaced in landscapes diary as fiction we are sewing self-hatred like silk iii. alone together running loud…
i. I restrict my pen Blocking every stupid thought A vanity that hesitates as if there were an audience No — it's sloth What I enjoy are reveries — not their record And yet, in every conversation I’ve had this year I claim to be writing a novel about whatever the fuck we are talking about Not convinced of my own madness suspecting I am merely a good reader with a perverted taste the pages burn…
in kindergarten I was too avant garde for coloring books no work from that era survives today my mother attempted to save my hand turkeys but I lectured her, scolded her, ranted on how a true artist consigns her work to oblivion no one understood and all my friends were hacks only Sara mattered the girl — who unveiled me her shades of pink Sara whose shades were endless — I now paint…
i. sunspot pointed a fresh shower worn off Greek myths slow thoughts ii. Looking back at the last few months, I'm proud of the little fragments I've managed to piece together. I've begun to edit and rewrite a bit and to place some new fragments here and there. I've written of today and find that what I've written fits quite well with yesterday: my thoughts mirror a past self, my behavior swings…
i. I have decided to become a new person this spring quarter: my class schedule is printed and taped to the wall above my desk, spent three hours designing the template, picking the colors—100% attendance, even if I fall a bit from that, at least 75 should be fine, just over 40 is an improvement—fuck didn't I start winter like this? ii. Three weeks into spring: We don't watch films. We discuss…