I want to eat practically all the time. Sadly, I sometimes lack drive to do anything that isn't work or escapism (really, work probably IS escapism, but tomato, tomato). So I'm hungry, and then I get kinda upset, and then I focus on things that actually are upsetting me while upset, then I eat, and now I'm been focusing on that which upsets me. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Sometimes the good parts of the day are the hardest. I woke up, I felt rested, and I skated out to meet you. You were radiant, warm, and soft. And I didn't feel sad about it, not one bit. Then I left you to your day, and it slowly dragged down again. I don't want to be that person to you. I know I've leaned on you a few times, but I don't want to do that. I'd rather be swallowed up inside myself - it's not like you could help me anyways. I hope that you and I work out some day, and that it is like summer days: all sparkle and warmth and impermanence.

Warm milk time, kitten needs to sleep.

Written On: Home Computer

Posted by Kurrs at 11:43 PM | Permalink

Continue running.

Run until your ankles bleed. Run until every ounce of fat slides off your already shrivelled body. Run until you burn the muscles that propel you forward. Run perhaps so that you might sleep. But you don’t, you run there too. You awake exhausted because you keep running in your sleep.

I can’t outrun you. But I will try.

Alternate Title: If I’m Going To Be Depressed, I Might As Well Get Really Good At Something

Posted by Kurrs at 10:44 AM | Permalink

Run.

Run until it burns. Run until the tops of your feet hurt. Run and challenge and strive until your legs are a warzone of scrapes and bruises and your muscles sit proud and swollen. Run until your entire body aches.

Push the rest of yourself, push towards something, something simple. A ball. A moment. Push until you become the razor sharp moment. Push so that you live up to your name. Push past social graces, past conversations, past the constant feeling of being alone. Bleed, strive, persevere. Spitting up blood is the goal, not a side effect.

I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to talk to anyone. I'm not sure I want to do anything that involves me. Let it be simple, let it be work, let it be sport, let it be art. I want things I can lose myself in. Large, perfect, black holes - that I can fall into until time ends.

Collapsing as I go.

Currently Listening: Stars - I Died So I Could Haunt You (Listen)

Posted by Kurrs at 10:38 AM | Permalink

Originally uploaded by h.koppdelaney.

I can't feed the delusions anymore. I feel like most people's sense of self worth is disgustingly bloated. You think you can just have my respect? Maybe a few years ago, maybe then I might have given you the benefit of the doubt, but not now.

I feel as though I've regressed. I don't feel like I can play my instrument, I don't feel like I can make it sound good or even close to where I would feel comfortable playing in public. I know I've improved but it's not enough. It's not enough and if you give me some bleeding heart platitude about how I'm probably being too harsh on myself I swear I'll break your face.

Why the fuck do people say that? You have to be that hard on yourself or you'll just coast and never make any improvement. Maybe you think only the super talented should succeed and you're reinforcing your belief by quitting before you try too hard.

I feel like I'm fighting my way up from bottom of the class towards an impossible goal and all I want is to play in a good orchestra and be paid moderately well for it. And I am, realistically, doing just that. There are so many amazing talents just breezing past me, and it's both inspiring and deadening. I try so fucking hard. I try and I try and I still feel like I sound like shit.

Ah fuck it. Sleep.

Posted by Beth at 12:28 AM | Permalink

You are so insanely well put together. Your face alone is unstoppable: how anyone can stand before white skin, black hair, pale green eyes, and a crooked nose I will never know. The rest of your body, darling, as they say in the parlance of our times, banging. And the sly glances, the nervous smile, the posture, the mannerisms, none of them seem out of place and all of them wrap me up in you. But it would be too weird, I cannot bring myself to ask, no matter how much I want. I would be then a number, insignificant. I would rather watch you from afar and maintain my delusion of uniqueness.

You, I cannot pin down. I think, perhaps, because you haven't pinned me down. You shift from scrawny to matronly, from seducer to girl next door. I can't keep track of your persona, your masks shift too completely and without pomp or circumstance. I think, perhaps, if I ended up with you, you might actually matter to me. Which makes me want to vomit blood. I cannot take it, the loss, the rejection, it is too much. Even once every four years is too much. If it happens, it happens, but I think I will tread water until you move on, no matter if you haunt my thoughts or not.

Written On: Home Computer

Posted by Kurrs at 10:58 PM | Permalink

Don't photostalk girls who shoot you down, no matter how attractive.

Scratch that. The intensity of the warning to not photostalk them should be directly in proportion to their attractiveness. The more attractive they are, the shittier it will make you feel.



Work is insanely busy but good.







I miss you.

Posted by Kurrs at 10:23 AM | Permalink

Has it really been that long?

Is that it? Is this relentless loneliness now sharing space with a returning sense of self?

I struggled, many long years, and every day and every month and every year I lost a little bit more. Cared a little bit less. About everything. The daily grind wore away at me, until I swayed in the breeze. It wasn't just loneliness, but worthlessness. So very tired, I was always so very tired.

I still struggle to do even the most basic of things. Food. Laundry. Dishes. Sleep. Cleaning. I find my current level of functionality despicable, and yet I see how much better it is than last year.

Now, a series of social tangles threaten to coil around me, join my loneliness and my dysfunction in their case to drag me down.

And I care. I react. I hate.

It mostly still sits insular inside me, flaring up but rarely for the systematic woes of our time and mostly for the wrongs done me, but it is there, nonetheless. It burns again.

It burns cold and true. Righteously.

Written On: Home Computer

Posted by Kurrs at 3:20 AM | Permalink

What do you do with all of this?

I was happy with you. Partly because your eyes sparkled and you said you wanted me to be happy. You were strange and beautiful and precious and mine. I was too much, in every way, and when I came to you in tatters, eye swollen and limping, you finally pulled away. My violence on your self-image along with my persona were finally rejected. I was warned: I would be struck down for daring to say I was happy with everything in my life. The sun trucks no hubris; the wax in my wings melted away and I fell. But it is not about you.

Y'know, I was never happy with you. Not once. Our entire relationship was a funeral, and the break-up was just the end. Everything after was mourning for something that was never alive. That is sad, but true. Even so, it is not about you.

I was happy with you too, regardless of how much you hurt me. The third in a series of happinesses, the third in a series of ones that I would have married. But, for an accounting different than I am not used to, you did not want me. You knew what would happen, you chose anyhow. It is hard not to take it personally. I will, perhaps, come back to you too, in years, like I do the other two. Perhaps then, we shall rekindle, and I might warm myself around that little fire. But then there may be too little left. Of me this time, and not of the other. Regardless, and irrespective of how recent, this isn't about you either.

I have, perhaps, been happy for approximately a month of all of years alive. You'd think I would be better at misery, with all this practice. Even with the magnitude of that statement, it isn't even about that either.

It is about me.

I wish I didn't need. There is so much excess in our society, I should be able to exist solitarily and without feeling so lonely (like I always have). I want to spit in the face of dependence, so much that I would happily die than have needed help. I am a knife.

But as I would lay there, bleeding out, I wouldn't be able to only think that I leave now because I cannot help myself up. That I could not carry myself into the massive safety net that exists everywhere in this bloated, beautiful system. I would also think that I wished one of you was there, holding my hand, and that you had felt the same about me. And perhaps the most pathetic thing is that I would want you to be there even if you didn't feel the same, because I feel like that about you.

That is what it is about.

Posted by Kurrs at 8:51 PM | Permalink

Great, now my skeletons are being paraded out in front of me.

I am in a sticky position where I might have to hurt a large number of people. Awkward.

I suppose I am not capable of being a martyr for causes that are wrong, even if it would prevent suffering.

Revealed preferences: it is not about being good, it is about not permitting wrong.

I cannot abide by injustice, selfishly about myself most of all. Not if it can be prevented.



Maybe I am the monster they say I am. Just not for the reasons they think.


Written On: Home Computer

Posted by Kurrs at 7:50 PM | Permalink

I like your constancy. You have changed slightly, and I caught a glimpse of you, like corvid heroin you glittered irresistibly for a moment. And then, like before, you shifted: ephemeral like the ray of sun you always were. This is pleasant to me, and I think that you understand me better than you know. Talk to me when the season ends.

Written On: Home Computer

Posted by Kurrs at 12:45 AM | Permalink

I'm tired all the time.

My lower left eyelid won't stop twitching.

I really need to start doing yoga again, but it is hard to care about one's own well-being while depressed.
Vicious cycles and all.




Work is good.

I'm skateboarding a fair amount.

I'm playing soccer again.



Currently Listening: Mumford and Sons - Sigh No More (listen)

Posted by Kurrs at 1:53 PM | Permalink

Originally Uploaded by rodders

Sometimes I just want to curl up and cry for hours. Sadly I'm no longer young enough to be able to stop thinking of the time I'm wasting whilst I'm doing this. At least when I was younger I didn't know why I felt weird and torn apart and lonely all the time.

I can't have some mild, sweet, average person because that mild sweet average person will be afraid of me and will do stupid, idiotic things because of this. The truth is I don't want to be with some mild, sweet, average person because they can't offer me anything other than disappointment.

I sure hate being lonely, though.

I hate even my own thought processes right now.

Whatever. I made reeds. Tomorrow we start again.

Posted by Beth at 12:22 AM | Permalink