Tuesday, September 25, 2007

"there's no tongue here to sing
the ungarbled song;
for each good love there are a dozen treacheries;
little men sit here picking at their
wounds;
one more drink and the desire to fuck
something,
a desire to be loved for the lie
and the trick
and a face without a
face; /
nothing -- the spider, the octipus, the
leech is as ugly as
man,
and nothing had a better chance
to be beautiful." - Bukowski.

I'm not feeling great again. It's funny, because it can be triggered by the most insignificant thing yet it has incredible influence over every aspect of my life. I have no urge to eat healthy, exercise, get out of bed or make any attempt to organize myself. Which, due to the fact I am very unhappy with my weight, my lack of organization, lack of ambition and dedication... isn't exactly a help to this whole downward spiral called my life.

I feel so unintelligent, so vacant and I have nothing to contribute. So why do certain people spend time with me? It's not like they can learn anything new. Nothing I know is relevant to anything anyone else wants to know, to feel, to learn. It's too cold outside for me. The leaves fall effortlessly at any sign of a breeze and I am lonely.

I just want my books and my bed. Forever.

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