Hehe
I just posted on blogspot.
Ask me how.
Free time? There never is free time, really. Whether I’m gazing fondly at the horizon or staying put around torrential conversations I always find myself two steps short of sanctuary.
But oh, drawing, writing, musing, playing guitar, singing, moving to a rhythm… so even then no free time!
In that case i’ll have some Asians! (sushi flavor)
(Source: bunnydemon)
Undone
It’s one of those nights like a flightless fall into a galaxy of nothing. The deep feeling of senses gripping for something solid and real, against seething guilts that question even themselves. It’s one of those nights when I think. Think. Thinking, thought of - so many words without words that put to sleep the real overarching entity of my [beastly] dialectic.
Why, in infinite indulge, am I undone?
Can’t raise my arms to the sky any longer.
Wrestle with you.
Can’t quite possibly speak to bones that can’t hear anymore.
Insomnia, Or An Excuse To Treat Time Like An Overbearing Parent
“What’s voluntary action.”
“It’s like your eyelids. Your body is naturally wired to blink on their own but you can also control it, like per-say, swallowing. The opposite would be…”
“I don’t care what the opposite is. (sigh) I just want it to be over with. Why does this even need to be an option?”
“The only way you will get better is if you take these necessary steps that ensure a slow and steady move towards recovery. If you start now I’d say you have three - no, maybe even two weeks until then”
”..what’s the opposite of voluntary motion.”
Living thirty-five minutes ago
The sun sitting on the horizon sea. Lapping waves over vast sea vista. Companion drenched in your shoulder-slung affection. I’m miserable every second, minute, hour and thirty-five away from them. The bus hits a pothole and lurches me forward knocking over the audio contraptions dug in my ears and the wires wrap with mania around my throat, with a surprise, choking me in the process.
I had to cough. There was too much going on around me as the seconds pass by and the orange gave way to blues and purples flirting with the moon setting camp where the sun was; the lady three rows behind me talking too loudly about soft things and four rows behind her soft things taking in hard matters; someone was constantly shifting their too long legs behind me and the cotton pattern in front of me kept swirling; the man next to me gave me a pattern of expression where you couldn’t tell if he was concerned for me or concerned for his clearly overpriced coat bought yesterday. Blood. Blood on my hands. Bloods on the tissue on my hands.
The water’s calm with the halo of the moon. Night sky net of once connected stars. The wind is on her shoulder and every second, minute, hour and thirty-five I’m miserable. I’m dead.
The end.
This photo is just like a time machine! I remember when classwork and homework was an adventure in of itself.
I like people who dangle their art and insight to the frenzied waters where those who are simply hungry can hope to make something of the same.
but food turns into waste.
NOOOOOOO
I’m running out of clean underwear, which means I have to do laundry now.. UGHHHHHH
Oh crud. Thanks for the reminder…
His Love.
I reek wealth. I watch the conduct of talent and it tires me to the brink of treason with mind and body. Skill makes her last stroke on the canvas of my undoing.
Even if cement is poured on me, my last image cast, will say more than a thousand words. If burnt the embers will dance with the intensity of a million suns with the soul’s deja vu. Cut me with bitter wind and the four corners of the earth shall I call my domain.
How do I become naught, relish hunger, comfort in being relinquished?
I was shooting a scene in my new film, No Strings Attached, in which I say to Natalie Portman,
“If you miss me. you can’t text, you can’t email, you can’t post it on my Facebook wall. If you really miss me, you come and see me.”
I began to think of all of the billions of intimate exchanges sent daily via fingers and screens, bouncing between satellites and servers. With all this texting, emailing, and social networking, I started wondering, are we all becoming so in touch with one another that we are in danger of losing touch?
It used to be that boy met girl and they exchanged phone numbers. Anticipation built. They imagined the entire relationship before a call ever happened. The phone rang. Hearts pounded. “Hello?” Followed by a conversation that lasted two hours but felt like two minutes and would be examined with friends for two weeks. If all went well, a date was arranged. That was then.
Now we exchange numbers but text instead of calling because it mitigates the risks of early failure and eliminates those deafening moments of silence. Now anticipation builds. Bdoop. “It was NICE meeting u” Both sides overanalyze every word. We talk to a friend, an impromptu Cyrano: “He wrote nice in all caps. What does that mean? What do I write back?” Then we write a response and delete it 10 times before sending a message that will appear 2 care, but not 2 much. If all goes well, a date will be arranged.
Whether you like it or not, the digital age has produced a new format for modern romance, and natural selection may be favoring the quick-thumbed quip peddler over the confident, ice-breaking alpha male. Or maybe we are hiding behind the cloak of digital text and spell-check to present superior versions of ourselves while using these less intimate forms of communication to accelerate the courting process. So what’s it really good for?
There is some argument about who actually invented text messaging, but I think it’s safe to say it was a man. Multiple studies have shown that the average man uses about half as many words per day as women, thus text messaging. It eliminates hellos and goodbyes and cuts right to the chase. Now, if that’s not male behavior, I don’t know what is. It’s also great for passing notes. there is something fun about sharing secrets with your date while in the company of others. think of texting as a modern whisper in your lover’s car.
Sending sweet nothings on Twitter or Facebook is also fun. in some ways, it’s no different than sending flowers to the office: You are declaring your love for everyone to see. Who doesn’t like to be publicly adored. Just remember that what you post is out there and there’s some stuff you can’t un-see. But the reality is that we communicate with every part of our being, and there are times when we must use it all. When someone needs us, he or she needs all of us. There’s no text that can replace a loving touch when someone we love is hurting.
We haven’t lost romance in the digital age, but we may be neglecting it. In doing so, antiquated art forms are taking on new importance. The power of a hand-written letter is greater than ever. It’s personal and deliberate means more than an email or text ever will. It has a unique scent. It requires deciphering. But, most important, it’s flawed There are errors in handwriting, punctuation, grammar, and spelling that show our vulnerability. And vulnerability is the essence of romance. It’s the art of being uncalculated, the willingness to look foolish, the courage to say,
“This is me, and I’m interested in you enough to show you my flaws with the hope that you may embrace me for all that I am but, more importantly, all that I am not.”
- Ashton Kutcher (Source)
(Source: kaaaaren-ang, via tiffanycee-deactivated20110703)
