My life has become an amazing, beautiful thing.
Everything flows easily and smoothly, every morning I wake up in full possession of myself, of my own happiness, of my thoughts and actions.
My epiphanic drive, I realized that I am not the person that (name) believed me to be.
I have realized that those expectations were like chains around my neck dragging me back into the depths of depression. Once I saw that, though, I became free. I am free of that aspect of my past, I can learn from it and move on.
I am getting married, and it is beautiful and perfect. I am a better person now than I have ever been.
Life is great.
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are absolutely looking up. the world and life has shown me that there are good and true humans in it.
I have value, and I have found new people that are valuable to me.
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I think that the period of self-recrimination is over. I will no longer feel responsible. I no longer feel responsibility for those things that are now, and have never been, under my control.
The fact remains that I could have done nothing more than what I did, I can only be the person I am. How am I not myself? If I could not be forgiven or given the space to grow as a person due to love, then how is that my fault. I know that I am not perfect, but there has always been a limit to how much retrospection can achieve. I have reached that limit in going back, now is the time to go forward.
I do not miss that which was poisoned. I did not poison it. Making mistakes is not a poison, not being able to forgive is a poison.
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The sounds of grace ringing thronging the walls of this house of this house of stones and bones worn gray worn brown worn pink by unconquered suns and by unconquerable sons of themselves the stones. filled to the very corners filled with and ringing this great bell of the space of our bodies from the lightest fairest hair on the bony peak of the foot to the flakes of skin trapped on your scalp reddening from the shame.
talking and awkward in my own, very own skin.
I walk around feeling my pulse in my gut in the very depths of my guts. Directly behind my solar plexus and stretched out with its head resting on my vertebra.
an echoing energy coils around my lungs they feel empty unfillable. I cannot fill my lungs with enough air. Nothing silences the restlessness. It keeps brewing, but there is no desire to go anywhere or do anything, just the anxiety burning.
heartbreak continues apace.
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I won't rest until I forget about it.
thanks xiu xiu
it it it
it is apocalypse and revelation. waking up onexxxx
waking up once again each today
each day of this daylight year
the dew knots.
hush: onomatopoeia. A silence that is not sleep, a sleep that clangs its way to dawn. Awake again, yet again.
cliche seems unavoidable, the range of human emotion seems pitifully small from this vantage point. repetitions/smatterings sadness and joy.
And in spite of cliches the sun is unconquered.
the sketchbook has become an egg from which a happiness could grow, fertile white pages taking down the lines that mean the vibration of thought.
got away with a flock of wine last night (that sentence is not true, and neither is this one).
tapping the frame drum with time in it, time waving as it speeds away. the leaves lay on the ground with some kind of aplomb, with a change of perspective the trees are making a final bed. and it is bednight for a time. Is it my time?
revision is re seeing. seeing again as if it is new. and it is new. this time when you look at the thing that has absorbed every second of your mind's time and time's mind. this time you will only see the holes and not the whole. you will see only the flaws, like suppurating wounds. but that is the only chance you might get to see it a new way, once gestalt always gestalt.
gestalt now and forever, like cutting a cord or parting a curtain. the veil, unfortunately remains down on this misty shadow world.
but someday I shall see face to face and not in this glass darkly.
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1, to know the worst and be free from it
2, hope there's someone
3, not give in to
4, build 10,000
5, draw a beautiful picture
6, give it a funeral with flowers and music
7, inter it
8, scratch the name off the mailbox
9, find somewhere else to sleep
10, go to the same places
11, tape wings on
12, be alone enough but not too much
13, make paint from the bitter
14, follow through
my life just became different. I am no longer in a relationship. I do not know anything anymore.
My whole being feels shaken shaken shaken shaken shaken shaken, shaking. I am scraped clean on the inside, empty of everything except emptiness.
I have no support mechanisms right now, nothing but a desire to not sink (and a desire to sink). My friends with whom I might let out some of my emptiness or find the strength to go on or just////They are all away while I am here.
'Man is the pie that bakes and eats itself, and the recipe is separation.'
Alasdair Gray said this/that/what. I have always had a tendency to let quotes rattle around in the idiot part of my skull (all of it). It prevents me
What happens when I can't end a
Does it mean that I
Or is that out of the
Even through the walls you can hear the dogs barking that
Oh, just wound up
I always think about listening
Which is maybe
I wish the world the best night, which will never end.
It is best not to have been born at all: but, if born, as quickly as possible to return whence one came. I stole this from Sophocles, which is untrue.
still reeling, brain refuses to sleep, Brain Refuses. Fissured and Issured and ssured.
right now I am unmoored. literally not myself I have no self I have less existence now than when I was a ripped shirt hung on the shame link fence (made of chain link) mayde of that
mad uf thit
nothing is worth
I'm trying to actually pay attention to which books I have read this year. I started a txt file with that information in it. It both seems like a way of engaging my intellectual life, as well as a reduction of the enormity of that accomplishment. It is embiggening and ensmallening, at once.
Trying to find work that does not make me want to commit murders is ongoing. I am not a very good person at doing this thing. It is bad. I am trying very hard to have a goal now that I am almost 100% certain that I will not be entering academia. That alone is crushing enough, let alone that my first job after receiving an MA is working as a dishwasher for minimum wage. It fucking makes me want to vomit. But, I'm not vomiting. I'm just enjoying the lack of responsibility and trying to envision myself in a new, more engaging, job.
Still going on my webcomic. Getting ready for STAPLE! on March 6th in Austin. V and I are going to have zines for sale. I am working on an UNLIKE Comix retrospective zine and a Jack Chick style tract for the Church of the Flesh-Melting Light of Laser Beam Jesus. Fun times.
I also am feeling a little low.
the passion of this, our, broken time(s)
frissonic reconstructed spheres,
so stricken, a sigmoid bell's ringing, as struck
xxxxxxxxxxx xxx xxx __________________.
when it was meant that the concrete floor exhales
into the bones of the feat
through ragged but comfortingable socks.^
this gabled hall, so crowned with bell
anointed with oils
named for saintess LUCIA whose wring knocks; knocks the
minds, knocks the thoughts from, of of the thoughts
of; the thoughts of blood from minds that spinned themselves in tightening
This house has neither gables nor tower to holdde ye* bell
the pealing spills comfort here and in the street
^the same as worn were yesterday there.
*not hearthern y, but a thorn from a back-series of yesterdays, usefully gone from the graphemes herein, but approximated by them.
going to CO with V to hang out for awhile in the trve kvlt grim cold. say nothing but that I should return safe.
been working on more cartoonings. in about a million years I should be a success.
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