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i am a ball of lies; truth entwined(?)

all i know is that i wasn’t born with a moral code.

it’s true that what i make believe is not true

because it is only true to my own senses(?)

 

then nothing is true, nothing is real, nothing makes sense, nothing is here,

nothing is.

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my feelings about wuthering heights by emily bronte(ay)

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i haven’t written a book report since high school. and there aren’t many books once can say that they hate but can’t stop thinking about. one only usually refers to fuckbois in this manner. let’s get on with it then. (this is not an official report. this is a mess).
i don’t think it necessary to type out a synopsis considering this is a classic. if you don’t know the story, you’ve had plenty of time, get on with it. all i want to do is comment on it.
 how many peoples’ lives actually start and end in the name of love? is it all of us? or is it a select few? if it’s the former, that’s very sad because the reality of it all is so invisible, so intangible. most of us live and die searching for a constant state of love and therefore happiness and only die off with a handful of momentous experiences.if it’s the latter then i would like to meet every one of these peoples and learn their stories. heathcliff was adopted out of love, heathcliff falls in love and then goes on to ruin everyone else’s lives for a love he could not attain. how can one person be so single minded as to pursue the affections of someone who did not want to be with him? because he knew that catherine loved him but objectively sought fortune from the transaction of marriage?  didn’t he consider the power of time changing the hearts of everyone’s and slowly even his?
whoever said it was right! love is blind. and in addendum : love is blind…as fuuuuuuuck.
this man used love to fuel his revenge too! i should take a few notes because despite the fact that he hurt the wrong people, i respect him (and i feel no shame in it). he turned his fortune around and stuck it to the man (catherine earnshaw’s brother)! why did he have to stick it to poor edgar linton though? and baby catherine? and oh god baby hareton? his sickly son linton? his beggarly wife isabella! the only person with a life in this book is nelly dean. bless her nerves. so he serves revenge pudding to distracted by-standers and then goes into self destruct mode. what the fuck man!!!
this book is important. they’re all mad, all these characters. bored and fucking insane but there’s something rather truthful to the relationships they have with one another.
heathcliff and catherine : you can love someone for just a small time of your life and perhaps even continue to love them and not feel in any way that you owe them commitment. and you can love someone in a possessive way, simultaneously shutting down all faculties of kindness in your system to have the shiny toy even after the shiny toy dies of childbirth because you can’t hop in a fucking carriage and move on.
edgar and catherine : you can love your wife even though you know she’s just in it for your cashmoneyyy. also she’s really pretty.
isabella and heathcliff : love and hate are the same variable in the equation. you solve for love, you solve for hate, same damn thing.
catherine jr and linton heathcliff : you can love someone and not like them at all. you can have pity on them and feel affection for whatever appeals to your sensibilities but high key know that they’re a shitty person on the inside. there’s also this twisted thing where you can love someone just a little bit but about 75% is triggered by your need to survive instead of actual affection due to sharing experiences together.
hareton and catherine jr : you can love someone no matter how similar or different they are to you. the equilibrium doesn’t really exist and you just make it up as you go along.
hareton and heathcliff : you start to like someone more when you realize that the things you hate about them are just reflection aspects of you. it’s narcissistic and narcissism is one of the ugly children of the 21st century so even though this book is old, we can all relate to it.yay.
heathcliff and earnshaw : freud probably has something smarter to say about this but i’m just going to say that you can’t torture the brown boy just because he’s hitting on your sister and your father thinks he’s cooler than you. what you do is, befriend him and make evil plans together because we’re more similar to those we dislike than we like to know.
nelly and everyone : reward those who witness your life and be kind to them. they have the power to either uplift or slaughter your character during their account.
joseph and himself : i have no idea what you’re saying, dude.
i guess the moral of this horrid story is
BE NICE TO PEOPLE OF COLOR.
and that listening to your heart, no matter how many pop stars convince you otherwise, is not the right thing to do, neither is it the wrong thing to do. it’s just something to do.

remote

Sandal Soles - Medieval Art @ MET

she knows a person she’s never touched yet

physically

just a soul she’s encountered from afar

someone with moods and likes and jokes and heart ache

same station, opposite platform,

a breathing figure

not reaching out for anything,

just waiting for something good to come by,

just like she is.

so they’re both just sitting here (and there)

with vague ideas about things etc.

one stands up to get a snack from the vending machine,

the other thinks that maybe she’ll do the same.

melancholic, yet nothing close to it.

she knows what it’s like to be alone in a small place,

yet certainly not lonely everywhere.

there’s someone else, quite like her, quite like.

both just wonder what the other would do

if the platforms were to merge into a great hall,

but feed that thought no further.

why-cause the separation is the wait

for a carriage to take each one

where they’re meant to go.

the divide assumes no company is needed

for any distance, for any while.

so the passengers sit where they are,

waiting to board a train,

both turn their heads to the sound

of a fog horn.

right there on those rail tracks that isolate the platforms,

is an anchoring ship.

élan

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i was told to have a festival within me

a sort of unexplained hoopla

but inside me it is stoppered

and nothing good is festering

progressive banter, skin tight schedules, self made deadlines,

g, wake up early, love life

-no

-stop

i cannot channel the spirit that will

help me look forward to paying bills

it will be done in the timely manner as one hopes ,

with no beating of the drum

no sayonce

nothing to smile about, really.o for it

Garble

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i have undressed a thousand times

but i still do not know myself naked

why should i, when all i have done

is plaster my image on to a canvas too good

for the likes of my oozing pores

i could scrub out all that is earthly within me

and i’d still wake with soft dirt in my mouth

 bound to places, times, memories, maggots

so what is id, if not a tooth rotting precisely where it should

gyrating against the pelvis of ignorantia

i thrust the impressions i have of myself

underneath fervent currents

and carry on,

dirt in my cavities,

dust in my eyes.

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i’m a mess these days

and these days are melting away

like candles on the back porch

in the heat of july

 

it’s only june still

i’ve leaped ahead of myself

i’ve made notes and revised

and welcomed the crippling fear a few weeks early

 

it comes with perks, the subconscious montage,

it comes with the tune for a morbid little lullaby :

 

who will die, who will die in july

father, step father, friend, feline?

who will die, die and die,

in stationary,

somber, arid july?