Obligatory ending.

Tunes in my head: Academy Fight Song by Mission of Burma
Books of a page: Lolita by Vladamir Nabokov 
Atmosphere: WHOA HOLY SHIT GOTTA GET READY

Yes, I've changed and evolved as a person over the past year.

But this is a new start, isn't it, my dear?

Let's see where the next year will take us.  

Hopefully as far away as possible.

Take me to another place she said
Take me to another time

"if I could, I would
 but I don't know how" 

Night falls, assails.

Tunes in my head: Belladonna by Siouxsie and the Banshees
Books of a page: Lolita by Vladamir Nabakov
Atmosphere: Exhausted.

and now we sit here, stuck together
paper and glue, lace and leather
one thing not as strong as other
musician and fan, child and mother

we get torn apart, twisted and frayed
like the chicken and the egg it laid
what happens when the bond breaks, rust
existence sans meaning, love without trust

when the time comes for one more breakdown
the pillow becomes trapped in an eiderdown
is there a few more years to tell
the difference between hope and the spell

what happens when the cello moves away
the staples are ripped from the page
the screen doesn't make so much sense
without the final scene or the correct tense

We will pay the price, but we will not count the cost.

Tunes in my head: Dreams Never End by New Order
Books of a page: Song by Seamus Heaney
Atmosphere: Broken

Suddenly you were gone
From all the lives you left your mark upon

We waste our time here. We really do. We sit in our bunkers and watch as all of these moments pass by like some wind, hastening our demise.

I was reading the story of a man who passed away on a forum I frequent a couple of years ago. He wasn't like that. He was the sort of person who crammed everything into life he possibly could. There's even a quote on one of the band's DVDs, that's immortalised him in the eyes of us.

Thirty one years isn't a long time, is it?

And yet it was all he got.

He lived every single moment of it, as far as I know. Yes, he complained about his problems, like we all do. But he got up and did something about them, he stuck it to them.

That's what we should do.

Live each moment to it's very end. Have our tussles. Experience.

Because in the end, what can we do when we haven't?

In the end, I don't even think this one "insignificant" person knew how much he touched a person's life. He may have only talked to me a few times, but the way in which he lived and the way in which he talked and listened touched me like he did so many others.

He often thought he was nobody's hero. But yet, all of these outpourings of emotion occurred upon the news. All of these people who wished that he would be there for one more story about a Westerner in an Eastern society, for one random conversation about music, for anything.

Life is short, and can be grasped from us at any moment.

Live every moment, the good and the bad, as they are.

Thank you, Keith.

Until the spirit, new sensation takes hold, then you know.

Tunes in my head: Disorder by Joy Division
Books of a page: Song by Seamus Heaney
Atmosphere: Whoa, I kind of can't hear out of my right ear. 

Introversion is such an interesting concept, you know?

Why do we people hold ourselves back from experiences, from ideals?

We have a fear of being hurt, perhaps. We sit back and look at the prophets crying, at the dead bodies, and go, with a sense of pretension amongst ourselves "hah, look at us, we hide and don't experience their pain."

But at the same time, our pain is what makes us as people. When we suffer through pain, we grow as people.

We see these people with absolutely no positive traits within them whatsoever, flaunting about their arrogance. And yet it succeeds for them.

So why do we, the introverts with some talent, hold back?

It's a good question, I suppose.

Maybe we don't feel the need to make our presence felt like these egotists are? Maybe we're comfortable where we are, we're content with our own lives. And so we don't intend to make the escape.

But is that needed? Do we need to escape from our own shells?

We sit and watch as the people we want, the goals we need to achieve, get taken from us by less deserving individuals.

Why do we sit back, in the fear of pain?

I don't know.

Woke last night to sound of storm.

Tunes in my head: Piper by Phish
Books of a page: The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy by Douglas Adams
Atmosphere: Asleep.

This is a semi continuation of yesterday's post.

I was talking about this girl who I've seen around who I think is amazingly attractive. (Will, you know who I'm talking about.) And so I was talking to her friend about her. Not even the whole "get me with her" spiel. Just the general stuff, what's she like, blah blah blah.

It turns out that she's apparently one of the most self-depreciating people that my friend knows, all because of the efforts of one ex-boyfriend.

Now, what drives people to destroy others like that?

What drives us to absolutely decimate a person's psyche? To make them think that they are nothing?

This girl seems like one of the sweetest, nicest people ever.

And yet there's the impulse to drag her down.

Is it jealousy? I know that when I see an attractive girl, I feel a bit envious of their looks, even when it's a friend, and even when I know they have issues of their own. The fact that I find them attractive makes me wish about myself.

So, did this bastard decide to destroy this pretty girl out of jealousy?

Or maybe it's a desire to make sure nobody else could ever have her?

How selfish of him.

How do we combat this epidemic? How do we build people who are in their heart good people up to believe that not everything they do is ultimately destructive?

That is the question, Moon.

The feelings have just run cold.

Tunes in my head: Love Will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division
Books of a page: Act of Union by Seamus Heaney
Atmosphere: Meh.

Attraction, hmm.

It's a strange beast, I think. The mechanics behind it, what we look for, why we look for those things.

Why is it so fucking hard to actually make a match, to find somebody? I have these experiences of people saying they're attracted to me. But because I refuse to hurt them, I decline their advances politely. Yes, it hurts them, I know.

And then, when I'm attracted to a person, as it happens rarely (VERY rarely), it never seems to work out at all. The stars aren't aligned right, they find someone better, some other fucking bullshit.

Why? Why are we so picky?

I mean, from a purely biological standpoint...it makes some sense.

But from an emotional one, it doesn't.

Everyone has good and bad within us. We have positive traits and negative traits.

This is absolutely unavoidable.

So why do we hold out hope for the perfect person when they will never come?

It will never happen, and in our hearts, we know that.

The movements in the brain.

Tunes in my head: Things Behind The Sun by Nick Drake
Books of a page: Damned To Fame - The Life Of Samuel Beckett by James Knowlson. (Only eighty pages to go.)
Atmosphere: Grah.

I hate myself, and everything I am.

I hate not being able to move.

I hate cracking when I was meant to stay aware, stay strong.

I hate people worrying about me.

I hate pushing myself.

I hate the way I look.

I hate the way I act.

I hate the way I am.

Intensely personal.

Tunes in my head: Sentimental Hygiene by Warren Zevon
Books of a page: Lolita by Vladamir Nabakov
Atmosphere: Melancholic.


I miss you.

Not who you've become.

But who you were.

I know there's no chance of that changing.

But I can still write it down.

I can still scrawl down my hopes onto the page.

Why?

There's no turning back the clocks now.

Because someone else sets them.

Even all of the moments in a box are fading away slowly.

The point of it all.

Tunes in my head: The Rainbow by Talk Talk
Books of a page: Damned To Fame - The Life Of Samuel Beckett by James Knowlson. Yeah, I'm taking my time and really biting into it.
Atmosphere: Paradoxical.

Is there anything worth dying for, really?

In the past, people have died in the thousands, in the millions for some ridiculous cause that there's an easy way around. You had warlords who would force people into wars it was impossible to win. And so they ran off the side of the cliff like some demented lemmings.

But in this day and age, is there anything worth the ultimate sacrifice?

You hear these stories of people killing themselves for love. But is love as intense as this worth our demise? Is an emotion meant to be what we die for?

I don't think so. To die for someone would be to deify them. And no matter how good they are at things, and how much you care about them, nobody deserves to be elevated above the level of humanity.

No matter how good they are.

Is there a cause that deserves people to run into death blindly for it's own satisfaction? I don't think so. I don't think much is worth sacrificing the moments of humanity to come.

Life is short, at best. And so we must squeeze every moment out of it we possibly can.

Because before you know it, it'll be taken away.

Disappointment.

Tunes in my head: It's Ice by Phish
Books of a page: Damned To Fame - The Life Of Samuel Beckett by James Knowlson
Atmosphere: Depressed.

To work so hard and fall so short.

It sucks, it really breaks one's confidence.

But...what can I do now?

All I can do is appeal and beg and plead.

This is the story about how we forget to remember.

Tunes in my head: Under African Skies by Paul Simon
Books of a page: Damned To Fame - The Life Of Samuel Beckett by James Knowlson
Atmosphere: Good.

I wasted my teenage years.

I mean, you all have your stories of debauchery and getting knives pulled on you and stuff.

Coming from my sheltered environment, I never had many of those. I've never been arrested, I've never trashed a school.

Now, yes, this is good in some aspects.

But don't those experiences colour us and make us stronger as people?

I'm going to be thrust into the real world soon. Am I ready?

A lyric.

Tunes in my head: Wealth by Talk Talk
Books of a page: Damned To Fame - The Life Of Samuel Beckett by James Knowlson
Atmosphere: Sweaty.

they say i wear those things on sleeve
fourty two times a day
they ask for one more song from michael
and beg for a different line
what can i say but thanks, no thanks
my heart is my badge of honour
when told to hide all i do is lament
the world's horrors all around

they say i hold these things too clear
too clear for one to touch
all to be done is point and stare
at the bleached who leads
mumbled words and quiet whispers
over the radio's hum
of a bleeding soul with a million listeners
where do we go from here?

michael sinks and sleeps the dream
at night he resurges resurfaces
what can we do when the feeling is gone
when all is left is straight
there's no duality without the passion
the one we all feed off
what is left but words too blunt
to convey emotion mystique

We looked for a ledge to precariously place ourselves on.

Tunes in my head: No Language In Our Lungs by XTC
Books of a word: Damned To Fame - The Life Of Samuel Beckett by James Knowlson
Atmosphere: Okay

What is the whole point behind stability, anyway?

Are we just scared of the fate of taking a risk? I mean, we could jump off the cliff and become poets and painters, leaving behind our debt, our grounding.

But do we? A few of us do. A few of us decide that it is better to be an unemployed thirty-one year old writer in a dilapidated cottage in Belfast than to be some lecturer at a university in Dublin.

The most of us, however, decide that it is best to simply sit and watch our potiential run by us as we go by our ordinary lives.

Just a random thought, I guess.

The peeling away of feeling.

Tunes in my head: Spare Change by Michael Hedges
Books of a word: Night Drive by Seamus Heaney
Atmosphere: Headache.

So I'm suddenly not allowed to feel anything, to allowed to express emotion, to convey sympathy or doubt or fascination or anything of the like to anybody anymore. Thanks.

--

I was reading the Phish biography today. And, as Les Claypool put it, it turns out that the people who do everything to help others, to make them comfortable, "Mr Happy", end up losing their battles as a result of this manic determination to make the world a better place.

What's the fucking point, anyway? You try so hard to make everyone else smile, you make yourself look like an idiot, and then they never appreciate it anyway. They never even take the effort that you put into making them happy into account.

I kind of feel sorry for the Santa Claus's around in the shopping centres. The kids appreciate it, I suppose. But do the adults take into account the happiness that is brought? Probably not. They'll just go right on with their daily business of making the kids feel like they're unimportant and insignificant in the general scheme of life.

If someone ran around in a clown suit, a few people would smile, and most would laugh at them, ridicule. Surely this is a way of showing how unappreciative we are of people who go out of their ways to make us smile.

Do we ever take into consideration their feelings? Maybe they make us smile in an attempt to hide their own misery and pain. It's the whole notion of the clown once again. Behind the makeup that they present to the public, they are truly sad and miserable.

But will the people care? Of course not. The people will merely go about their business as usual when the person reveals their pain. Or even worse, they'll decide to add onto it, see that as noble. They'll see "oh, everyone's lumping their crap on this person who does everything to keep us happy, who will throw themselves off things and put their own feelings aside so that you can be satisfied with what you have.

Yes, they put aside what they feel forever in a futile attempt to make you feel content with yourself.

Do you ever take that into account? Do you ever take what they hide into consideration as you go about your daily life with your perfect girlfriend, perfect homelife, perfect job, perfect everything? Do you ever think of them when they turn up bleary eyed, having made you smile the day before? Do you ever think of them when they crack some dry joke, in a futile attempt to make their friends smile?

I feel like I'm slowly slipping under.

Tunes in my head: Another Night by Camel
Atmosphere: You know.

I CANNOT DO ANYTHING RIGHT. PLEASE LET ME OUT OF HERE. I'M NOT AFRAID. I TRICK MYSELF LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE THAT I CAN MAKE THE CHANGE TO SOMEBODY ELSE'S LIFE. I WAS WRONG.

She won't move and I'm holding her head.

Tunes in my head: Pink Frost by The Chills
Atmosphere: Hungry

As a society, humanity is completely insane.

Just to put things into perspective, really. There's an uproar over the Mayan calendar which so many people are misinterpreting, there's people fawning over celebrities like they give a damn.

--

Silence in itself is a beautiful thing. Who here has listened to 4'33" by John Cage?

If not, go and listen to it.

Why should we need to say what can be left unsaid?

Take Lucky's monologue from Waiting For Godot, for instance. He is pushed into speaking, so he says something of no consequence.

Do we need to say what can be left unsaid? Of course not. Some things are better left unsaid.

And then again, some things need to be said before the oppurtunity is gone. How much you absolutely despise someone. How much you love someone, to the point where you'd die for them.

Silence is golden.

So is breaking it.

Can we live our lives in silence? Probably not.

I'm dying here. Lack of social interaction, they call it. I'm not talking to people and it's starting to really wear me down. I got out today just to watch some movies and enjoyed it intensely.

But at the same time, being forced to talk to people, even these people who I love to bits, would kill me after a while. I'd go through the motions.

And that's nothing that I would enjoy.

Even despite the hotheadedness and the emotion that I put into everything, I need a respite, a break sometimes.

And that's when silence comes in handy. Silence is brilliant when one needs to just tell the world to fuck off and leave them alone. Silence is great when I need to withdraw within my own thoughts and break myself apart inside for my own pleasure instead of breaking myself apart for somebody else's.

Isn't that why we do it, why we utterly disintegrate? So the people around can gain some satisfaction at seeing another person fail?

We are sick as a society. We enjoy other's failings.

As much as we say that we want them to feel better, a part of us sees their strengths and our flaws and thanks ourselves for seeing them die slowly.

Sickening, isn't it?

Unfortunately, it's also realistic.

I don't want to disappoint you.

Tunes in my head: E-Bow The Letter by R.E.M.
Atmosphere: Tired.


wipe my name from the papers
from the whiteboard inside
was i really there at all?
or was i bludgeoned behind the curtain?
the same old game played in circles
running around chasing each other
say the name that scares you the most
i recognise it as your own
as your own way


rip myself from all the corners
photos aren't that valuable now
spineless person sneers from behind
the same joke as funny as ever
i'm being devoured from within
the showers inside hiding sin
i just want to go far home
is the walk worth the eternity
the eternity to wait


you say there's no memory of me
even as i show the artifact
anything but me is what makes the smile
are those the rules to play?
where's my consolation?
for a life lived in the bunkers
the streets of manchester are not so warm
so jealous of the taste of youth


i'll give up my prize for a touch
for one last glance of the wounded
it's a ritual to part and turn
but what says it must be strict?
and now the bloody fist drips
onto the pages on the desk
rubbing the relief onto the paper
and the smear is erased


the pages torn from the diary
and scorched into smouldering flame
please i cannot take the punishment
i'm drained of all life remained
can't you see the things i am?
or is it gone with the last memory?
when the moments fade into lapse
do i become the invisible one?


i'm grasping for air beneath the stones
that bury me alive in this prison
can you keep me for a little while?
with your care and your thoughts
i may be crushed within
but a single grasp is all i need
to keep in your mind
and to let go to die

If you can't feel the symptoms, it won't effect the cause.

Tunes in my head: Quadrophonic Toppling by Phish
Atmosphere: Struggling to stay awake.

DISCLAIMER
The following post was written at 3:15am this morning in my diary. If you do not wish to read the account of someone suffering severe sleep dep, stop now. This post may contain minor grammatical errors. It is, however, quite real. At the time of this writing (5:54am) there has still been no sleep. Yes, I'm kind of nuts. I know. Please feel free to comment on the below. No illicit substances were consumed before the writing of the below post.

--

As I write this post, it's currently 3:15am. No, I will not make out with your friends. Sorry, girls.

Anyway, I'm in the middle of listening to Big Cypress, Phish's NYE 2000 festival, where they played from midnight to sunrise. Of course, something of this nature, with no substantial breaks in the music, must be listened to as a whole.

And so here I am, scrawling.

Why do we push ourselves to do things like this?

Is it because we lack confidence in ourselves, and so we feel the need to push ourselves in order to prove our worth?

Or is it a form of flagelance? Do we do this silly and sick runs of endurance in order to punish ourselves?

(of course, listening to heavenly twenty minute jams is hardly punishment.)

(the sleep dep, however.)

This would normally be the time all of the confessions would come spilling out, where all of the skeletons would tumble out of the closet.

Not now, though.

Why do I force myself to write now, instead of merely letting it come as it does?

Is it because I now see the creative path as something merciless that must be used for money?

Maybe.

Hey, maybe I could write a theatrical piece on the effect of sleep dep on the human anatomy, on the human psyche?

That would be killer.

Somehow the late nights are starting to kill me. I used to be able to stay up until 4:30 every weekend. It just hit 3:25 and I'm really struggling.

Nearly halfway. Another four hours and this will all be over, Liam.

If I had any brains, I'd have started at 10, and so would now be approaching Piper or Roses.

But now I've got to live with the torture.

It's part of what we are. Living with our own self inflicted pain.

And now the ending to Quadrophonic Toppling. The Siket Disc is one of the most interesting albums ever recorded. A collection of improvised, ambient jams, with no purpose beyond their initial creation. The way I see it, however, it makes for perfect late night music. At only 35 minutes, it doesn't overstay it's welcome, either.

My writing's seriously starting to approach illegibility. Time to sign off, methinks.

Towards the watertower.

Tunes in my head: Nightswimming by R.E.M.
Atmosphere: In pain.

Why?

I'm not sure all of these people understand, but I know what's going on.

It's always about somebody else. It's always about focusing on whoever else's pain, it's always about making them feel happy.

What then when I need a hand, when I need something of a friend to take me and make me smirk, make me smile?

It's such a fucking double standard, isn't it? It's always about you. Never about anybody else.

Expect from others as you expect from yourself. At this point, you can just go and disintegrate somewhere else.

I can't wait for the end.

I can't wait until I meet the ocean.

Isn't that the whole point of this? To find the ocean and slowly flow into it?

My flow is being stifled, then.

Zither.

Tunes in my head: Mock Song by Phish
Atmosphere: Okay

Here it comes, motherfuckers, the inevitable relationship post that we all know has been brooding for so long.

What attracts us to people, really? Some will say that it's our own preferences on a purely physical manner. We have characteristics, and whoever fulfills them will automatically be most desirable.

And on a purely physical level, they're seemingly right. But maybe not?

On my level, I have a preference towards green shades of eyes and red hair. And yet I've only ever been attracted to two girls with green eyes. Whereas I've been attracted to more girls with blue or brown eyes.

It's strange, though.

And when you take the red hair into consideration, this theory becomes even more ridiculous. I've NEVER been "in love" with a girl with red hair.

So why do I so outwardly desire those characteristics, and yet inside, don't even go for them?

Is it because I see them as so utterly unattainable?

Or is it because I hide what draws me to people?

What are we attracted to then, as people?

I've always said to myself "I'll never date a girl who isn't intelligent", and I feel like this is one thing that truly draws me to someone. Not that they have to be genius level, just smarter than me would be absolutely ideal. (that's not too hard, is it?)

I find that I have problems conversing with bogans, say. I can't find what to say, they usually say fuck every other word, nobody gets anywhere.

But then again, what defines intelligence?

In my case, I don't think that's the correct word, really. It's a silly word. But it...encompasses what I mean.

I mean, I'm interested in people with an interest in literature, who I can actually converse with and feel somewhat intellectually satisfied by on occasion. (No, Kristy, as much as our nihilistic conversations are fulfulling on that level, I don't feel attraction because of them. Or do I? XD)

Maybe I look for someone who draws some sense out of me, who can actually get some coherent sentences out of me sometimes. Not many people can, can they?

So how do we define attraction? I don't know.

I like to think it's someone who can gain something from my existence, who I can gain from their existence. Not a parasitic relationship. But one where both people come out of it the better, the stronger, the wiser.

But isn't that so hard to find, anyway?

If it's not physical, if it's not intellectual, if it's not emotional, what is it?

I give up.

She's got time.

Tunes in my head: The Musical Box by Genesis
Atmosphere: Meh

I'm so sick of talking about me.

Tell me your stories.

I'm up and I'm down.

Tunes in my head: Taste by Phish
Atmosphere: Falling


Wear it on your sleeve, right, Michael?

What happens when we wear our emotions on our sleeve, leave them raw and open for the world to see, for the people inside to spit on them?

We got mocked. We get criticised for being so overtly emotional.

But I don't really see the problem in being open about these sensitive things, in actually being honest?

People who just mumble out an "I'm okay" often have things wrong with them. But by hiding them behind this shell, there can never be any resolution, any solution to their problem. By simply taking it in, they lose sensitivity, and eventually just decay and die.

But people who express their pain get lynched by the mob, don't they? People who say "hey, fuck it, I need help" basically get hung by the people who couldn't give less of a fuck.

I can't even express empathy for things anymore. I can't even say "oh, yes, I know how you feel" without being attacked for things. What the hell did I do? Nothing. I merely say "you have my sympathy" and I basically get clawed at and torn apart.

So now, what do I do?

Do I sit here and become cold, become emotionless and lose the integral part of me?

Or do I sit here and continue to emote and express, and continue to get criticised for "no, you can't be depressed, stop whining."

Like it or not, I am human. What happened when you needed a hand, when you were telling me of girls who would sit so far out of your reach? I was there. I would sit there and comfort, and talk.

And now when I actually need a hand, you do nothing but slap it away.

The conflict rages.

Blaze the walls, break them all.

Tunes in my head: Stand by R.E.M.
Atmosphere: Curious

The story of Brivs Mekis is an intriguing one in regards to the notion of identity in society.

Basically, the story regards this schizophrenic man in Athens, Georgia. His house was divided in two by a brick wall. On each side was different household implements, different pets, different settings, completely different lives.

As he had split personalities, whenever he changed from one personality to another, he would proceed to move to the other side of the house for a while until he switched back.

Nobody knew of this life until after his death, when they searched his house, and found hundreds of copies of a book - Life: How To Live.

Now, how can we say that he did not have a discernable identity? Of course he did, that's just logical. He had more than one.

Were they both important, distinct? I'd say so, even though I never knew the guy, and I obviously can't ask him now.

But what says identity can't be split into chambers, into sections? It seems like a perfectly rational thing to me.

What is identity, anyway? Is it who we are?

Or is it who we are to a certain group of people?

On my own personal front, people generally tend to see me as the most batshit insane person they could possibly talk to, who would stop at absolutely nothing to make people laugh and smile. He often fails, yes, but it doesn't mean he stops trying. He's just always there to help out, to be there.

But there's also a sense of darkness within me. There's this overwhelming wave of sadness that can sometimes swallow me. There's this sense that all I'm doing is merely waiting for the next drop off the side of the cliff. There's a side people don't generally see, but a select few know exist.

And even then, there's possibly more. The select few may see me as the wonderful, sweet person I apparently am (I don't see it myself.) Of course, maybe I don't want to fully expose myself. Every time I truly do, I get nothing but pain from anyone I do.

Do we hide sides of ourselves from others?

If we do, are we really showing off our true identity, or are we merely placing up the facade?

Every time we close each other.

Tunes in my head: Shiny Happy People by R.E.M.
Atmosphere: Sore

What is the appeal in being uncontained, being rough, being improvisational?

We see these people with their flaws, their difficulties, their failings. And yet we don't see it neccesary to iron them out.

Now, if we were true perfectionists, we would. If we took other humans as we took the rest of life, we would.

But we can learn to embrace other people's annoyances and flaws. We learn to enjoy the dulcet tones of snoring.

Why? Is it because of our desire to make people happy?

Or is it mere acceptance? Is it merely some attempt to make others happy?

I actually enjoy seeing people's flaws. I know that I myself am one of the most flawed and defeatable people in the face of the planet.

So seeing that other people have them too makes me not feel so bad about my situation, sometimes. It brings a sense of empathy, which is always handy.

Yeah, this post makes no sense. Sorry.