| i have made a new discovery, and that discovery is blackberries, and not just blackberries, but the unholy deliciousness of them. this is ironic because they are very creepy looking--they're lumpy. what's more is that they have malevolent collections of seeds in them, and if any blackberry is too large, then you will spend the night after your devouring of a large blackberry crying yourself to sleep because of all the seeds that will be stuck in your teeth.
and thinking about blackberries got me started on another topic, such as sylvia plath, because she, like thousands of other authors, wrote about blackberries. blackberries usually have some sort of nostalgic meaning for some people, though i don't know why, but i guess even when i was a child we had a blackberry bush growing nearby. isn't that stupid? i don't know.
"deep in liquid
turquoise slivers
of dilute light
quiver in thin streaks
of bright tinfoil
on mobile jet:
pale flounder
waver by
tilting silver:
in the shallows
agile minnows
flicker gilt:
grapeblue mussels
dilate lithe and
pliant valves:
dull lunar globes
of blubous jellyfish
glow milkgreen:
eels twirl
in wily spirals
on elusive tails:
adroir lobsters
amble darkly olive
on shrewd claws:
down where sound
comes blunt and wan
like the bronze tone
of a sunken gong."
sylvia plath wrote that and it turns out she's sort of my linguistic hero. she must've known all the words there were to know because her poems usually contain 1-9 words in which i have to look up and pretend to memorize (and i say pretend because i never remember them).
i don't know why i'm here; well, that is actually a lie. i am here to figure a few things out and to do so rather privately because i know no one reads this.
i have decided that perhaps i'm not becoming the person i had always wanted to become; in fact, it's a little possible that i am diverging on a completely different path and it's not one that i like. i've noticed my tendencies towards acting rather vapidly and abrasively, and i can't even continue in this voice anymore.
the other night, while sitting with some new friends, i noticed i was completely viewing everything in the wrong light, and because of it i was becoming just like everyone else. it's hard to be a good person, and i think maybe if it weren't hard to be a good person, more people would be good people, and not deceitful or insolent or indolent.
i like integrity. i like ingenuity. i like modesty. these are things i find appeasing in a person and would like to see in myself and so that's that. and i think i forgot a little bit that i was trying to be a good person and not just another person because even though life is just life is just life, i still want to live it in a way that i approve. nothing is inconsequential, after all.
and perhaps i am writing this because i was remiss in my actions, and this way when i write it, i have surely thought about it, as sure as two times two. i wish. i wish i were different. i wish i were much different, and i know i do this and maybe in reality i really don't wish something like that, but here and now i don't know that, but i am bending under my standards, and i just want to meet them.
and what is up with my mother's attitude towards me? what does this mean? it's a little painful. upsetting, even, and i definitely don't need any more upsetting things to occur right now! i do not i do not, and i understand that everything will prevail and i'll be okay and so will everyone else but.
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| i can write and write and write all day and nothing could come of it. i could neurotically shift from place 'a' to place 'not a' a thousand times over and over again and extrapolate nothing about my journey--the same questions taunting me, and after a thousand left turns, i realize i am still. in. the. center. of the maze. and what's worse is that i've created this maze. and what's worse is that i forgot to create an exit. and what's worse is i don't want an exit.
but how much can i help it? how much can i save myself from myself? who knows. |
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| it really bothers me when you do that.
(i'm jealous) |
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| what's interesting now is i live on both sides of the lines i keep drawing. this is a double standard; i live a lie. actually, a lie inside of a lie inside of another lie. whether this makes me an awful person, or the realization of this makes me a slightly less awful person, i don't know. i think the results of all of these paradoxes will convey a clearer answer.
comfort is a strange, strange phenomenon, wouldn't you say?
i don't know what i am doing here. this is kind of an awful situation. |
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