pity percived

in my pain i love myself, i have reason for my failure, i feel for me.
in my death maybe i feel like lovers feel, will make me free.
of guilt of the other and the shame of me.
i really need it, what can i do.
it makes me real, in my dream
where there is none, only my creation of it

Untitled

hope, why can i not leave you

i am exploring, the space around me, and not understanding. and killing other with my banal mumblings. i think i must try and save them of their misery and start feeding this screen with uselessness. can i . i know i wish too.

the virutal life. the media mouguls. leaving peacefully. seconds and centuries. self-refrentialism. can i miss sombody real.

the realization or even a slight understanding into another plane of existential thinking (or any) serves to blow up the foundation built over the couple of decades of our existence. of slowly understanding the faint echoes of what people said, what you thought they meant. and now you can never be sure. of what others mean. of why they do. of the control you have over your life. of conformity and the (fed in) need to break off.

work, actions and where does reading and explorations fit in. can't get me into college, or a job i would appreiate myself for. to finally write of the mumbles and not of writing them. i so love to hide my states of conciousness in places i will never find. if i am capble that is. i am moving more towards the useless. this was not the direction i had hoped for. some time later i guess.