Autumn fuck me

The smell of autumn is coming my way to pat my nostrils and current fucked up head; been scratching my scalp, nipples and labia too hard. Evidently the delayed feeling of anguish did not evaporate in the oblivion capsule like I hoped it would, but never mind. So in order to suit this ugly face I’m currently not using hair conditioner, cos when things are smooth you tend to slip.

 

The switch from sunshine to rain is like a mental disease that propels you to walk on a string of ideas; it’s stimulation at its best, an ongoing movement, as nothing is constant. Only spring and autumn have the ability to present it. Spring symbolizes the beginning while autumn represents the end. As you may know, I’m rather partial to the latter.

 

The effort I invest into blending in needs to be balanced out by a long session of music intake as otherwise an indescribable series of numbness will penetrate my limbs and my spine will send a signal of bemusement to my head and chest. Like you want to cry and it’s not coming, because you cannot detect any reason.

There is just this feeling that something’s not quite right with my face.

Maybe I should test each experiment one at a time instead of all at once, but I can’t do anything about my great curiosity that revolves around “what if”.  It’s a compulsion.

Discovering truths, learning new and more effective techniques to live and explore what makes me weak and step out before it forces me down on my knees and forget who I really am. You know what I am talking about. There is a danger involved sparking a kind of fear that makes us take a step back, not all of us, though.

 

When F. helped me to nurture my abilities last year, I perceived the essential significance within my alter ego. She is of higher standards and a lot more successful, but her flaws are my invention of what could be referred to as my imagined paradise of a successful human being. Motivated by the lie planted in the heart and tickled by her libido, she ultimately integrates herself into a spot in society where she is highly regarded as successful.  A lie, after all, can evolve into a piece of truth, as we always need a certain reason for our actions. There is nothing wrong with making things up sometimes. All writers are being accused of this. Accused of what? Facilitating life by creating lies that mirror each individual’s perception of his shadows and thus build empathy of the highest order. That’s how we get together as far as I know.

And this is what I want to do, no matter how much I despise each single one of you, you are the whole world.

 

When Hemingway said that all typewriter-addicts did was sit and bleed, he was right. It makes me wonder how much he bled, judging by his sense of composure, probably drop-by-drop, while some would hemorrhage on the first page.

I saw Hemingway’s tears in the rain, his affection through the way he touched her and his kindness in nursing his fellow soldiers.

Stoic people don’t tell anyone how much it aches.

 

Emotions are merely images.

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