let me tell you of the raven's sins.

Reading: Dylan Thomas Selected Poems (illegal stolen copy sue me).
Listening to: Night's quietude.
Mood: fallible.
2014 September 18, 9:40 PM.

Thursday, September 18, 2014

The Purpose of Life


What am I doing. What do I want. People in their thirties, or twenties even, secure a steady income, marry a spouse, buy a house, raise children, and be content. The traditional concept of pursuing life. Pleasing everyone. And I sitting here typing my usual shitload of junk, glaring into imaginary shapes and movements. I thought of marrying, twice. But nothing would work for me. I mapped things out, applied for three international scholarships and attempted a national one. Nothing worked. Perhaps it's Fate. Or pure laziness. Lack of intention. Not sure what sounds right anymore. I have no need to interact or to converse. I read. I study Life. I write in between empty daydreamings. I looked for jobs as Sanity struck. Then I am too proud to lower my worth into their merciless capitalism and racist resolution. What works, what is there to do. I loved a game. They took it away from me. I waste my time accordingly. But Life — Life makes no purpose for me. Rest. Rise. Coffee. No ambition. No interest to impress. I adore my unrealistic approach to everything. There is nothing to change about me. Most self-involved. I see myself dead. And Death turns tricky. Hunger and thirst. Mind weary from the loss of hope. Body aging into seclusion. Desires bleached. Nothing but Vagueness.



Wednesday, September 17, 2014, 8:15 PM –
Thursday, September 18, 2014, 2:42 AM

Untimely


That Clock is dead. This one's
too late. I cannot tell the time.
             I shall make no involvement
with the synchronized rhythm of the Sun —
blazing hiding whenever he wants.
People like me the avoidant
lazy sluts too uncaring to turn,
we sneak into Staticity, befriending Uncertainty.
I forgot to draft, blissfully happy. But
Happiness is such a chore, so much suffering
in disguise. I wish I could be ready
could be spontaneous could be sandy. I wish
I could love Sleep but I'm an amateur,
neither a lover nor a wife nor a mother, never
a worker, slightly begrudging in a neutralized envy.
Predictable like the weather is hot and
the heat rainy. My breasts sagging, eyes swearing,
skin reddening from a plague of Discontent.
Oh how I demand demand demand!
Dingy in too many thoughts, not enough hardship.
Some hyperbolic fragments waiting to be adored,
inventing the prettiest death, am I? Calling it
Creativity, everyone leaves me. Please
leave me: I hold not your key.



Wednesday, September 17, 2014, 2:39 –
Thursday, September 18, 2014, 2:21 AM

Saturday, September 13, 2014

Hey Sexy


Blogger also tracks other Unix
whatever that is.
And Macintosh and Windows and Android and Blackberry
and any disguise you can come up with.
No way you'd win against Google's superpower, right?
Right.

So. Give it up?
Keep em coming?

There's this thing called Honesty.
Only real men use their authentic IPs.