The smell of autumn is coming to pat my nostrils and fucked up head.
I’ve been scratching my scalp, nipples and labia too hard in my sleep. Evidently, the delayed feeling of anguish did not evaporate in the oblivion capsule like I wanted it to, never mind. To suit this ugly face, I’m currently not using any hair conditioner because when things are smooth, you tend to slip.
The switch from sunshine to rain is so bipolar. It propels you to walk on a string of ideas, stimulation at its best, an ongoing movement since nothing is constant.
Only spring and autumn can present it. Spring symbolises the beginning, while autumn represents the end. As you may know, I’m rather partial to the latter.
The effort I invest in blending in needs to be balanced out by music; otherwise, a 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, it’s not coming because you can’t 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, but I can’t do anything about my 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 makes me forget who I 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 nurture my abilities last year, I identified the essential meaning of 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 a society where she is highly regarded as successful. After all, a lie can evolve into a piece of truth. 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 facilitating life by creating lies to mirror each individual’s perception of their shadows. But this is how we build empathy of the highest order. That’s how we get together.
And this is what I want to do, no matter how much I despise every 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 how 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.
