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[19 Oct 2003|04:06pm] |
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Friends only from now on. I can't seem to have privacy anywhere since I have people obsessed over me. And also so I know that you actually want to read me. xx
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[16 Oct 2003|09:54pm] |
If you have the guts, which I reckon you don't, why don't you just leave your name? Naz you are worthless and pathetic blabla, no seriously please tell me something new, do you think any of that is insulting to me? It isn't, and I'm sure you meant to insult me.
And FYI, most of my posts are friends only, you have no clue to what goes on in my life. Actually I'll probably leave everything to friends only, and leave my site to public. In any case I am definitely more genius than you will ever be, thats a fact.
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[14 Oct 2003|10:26pm] |
To some people I know self destruction is a phase in their lives, something bad, for awhile, for their grandoise moment. To me its become me, part of me, a fact of life, that this heart can't cooperate with the mind, and that this soul is splitting in this skin. But amidst all this, I am quietly content with things such as littering my room with tealights and linking pinky fingers with him out of school. I don't know I'm just tired tonight and hungry, and I know whats bothering me.
We bought a cactus and named it Jack Sparrow. He's the newest edition to our family. Zil says a cat (kitten) will be next, then he said we should get more cacti and name them all. Create some sort of cacti garden in the shelves of my room. He wants to get a bed perfect for tying hands and legs and really just curling up in. I wanted flower seeds so we could plant them in our garden, but I couldn't find any. Daffodils? Roses? Will they survive the hot hot heat here anyway? Well there's a lot of rain nowadays. Then we took a blissful sunlight filtered through glass busride, with him squinting because he hates sunlight. And I'm in love with it. So I suppose I'm Romeo and he's Juliet.
I think the best way someone has described me, (or was it my writings? same thing anyway) is as tender and tragic. I'm not so tragic as people like to make me be, I'm not a really a heap of nihilistic mess and poppycock. The fact that I'm still writing about planting flowers and sunlight means I'm quite lucid still. I don't have episodes anymore, just long intervals of sunkeness, but in that hollow I have a lot of love. See I love my life, but I hate myself. Its very simple.
I'm not so bruised as Mathilda.
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[13 Oct 2003|11:01pm] |
[ Error: Irreparable invalid markup ('<img [...] of%2">') in entry. Owner must fix manually. Raw contents below.] <img src="http://images.quizilla.com/C/cultureslut/1053777870_beautiful3.JPG" border="0" alt="You are 'Staybeautiful' Beautiful, damaged and in love with your own destiny..."Babes on the run with poisoned lips/Wrap your arms around this everlasting kiss/Clinging to your own sense of%2"><br>You are 'Staybeautiful' Beautiful, damaged and in<br>love with your own destiny..."Babes on the<br>run with poisoned lips/Wrap your arms around<br>this everlasting kiss/Clinging to your own<br>sense of waste/All we love is lonely<br>wreckage" <br><br><a href="http://quizilla.com/users/cultureslut/quizzes/What%20Manic%20Street%20Preacher%20Song%20Lyric%20Are%20You%3F%20(Now%20with%20pictures%20for%20all%20answers)/"> <font size="-1">What Manic Street Preacher Song Lyric Are You? (Now with pictures for all answers)</font></a><BR> <font size="-3">brought to you by <a href="http://quizilla.com">Quizilla</a></font> thats really funny |
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[12 Oct 2003|08:42pm] |
A mermaid wiggles with ungraceful tail and smooth arms across the tv screen, and on snowy mountain tops sufi mystics are twirling with their cool turkish tophats. I shout 'Turkey!' and absorb those images, the beaches and the dancers and everything. I wanna be that mermaid. Y'know, I've the most brilliant people surrounding me and we're jsut stuck in the wrong place. Then after the turkey travel ad, came something from the Ministry Of Health. In big bold white letters ' Depression Is Treatable ', yes it is, but not by prozac and counselling, fucka. Unless you're an attention seeking teenager.
My thoughts are molecules of river crashing all over the shore. I don't think I want to write anymore, as I think of his pelvis, his pelvis, and that fuzzy chin.
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[07 Oct 2003|08:11pm] |
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music |
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bjork - lilith |
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I've been calm and destructive, so it doesn't feel like I'm being the latter, which is great.
I wrote this as I stoned in the exam hall, with about 2 hours sleep -
The imperfection of all things
Has compelled me to embrace
Every crack in the pavement
And every tree that made it
The every breaking of her back
Is compensated by a rash kiss
He doesn't know what he's doing
As she wrings her spine off pain
I don't know you
I don't
I just want you to go before
I break you
Like this spine
This spine
There is a creature running
Down this river of my spine
-
Yeah. I'm horrible at writing songs and my left hip stings, as usual, as usual.
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[06 Oct 2003|06:10am] |
He messages me that he has nightmares. He doesn't reply my messages after that. My contacts are drying up and my hair is blown all over. I'm tired. I have a three hour paper, and I'm going to go in there, feel miserable, flunk it and repeat my year at college. I've never repeated any year. I don't fucking want to. I need some breakfast. And a cigarette. This sucks.
I need to hold a guitar in my hands and embrace it. Even more I need to socialise. And some beer. I need to kick back these heavy shoes I've worn so long and sink my feet in the cold soft fine sand. This insane working hours makes me want to strike. Against who? Anybody who exerts his fucking authority on me. He's cooking for me today. I think I just want to draw his sepia curtains and curl up on his floor. Right now I want anything except a three hour history paper I know shit about. (some)Revolutions as documented by history is nothing but a fucktard culmination of no wit and no action.
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[04 Oct 2003|08:39pm] |
Smoking in my room makes me dizzy. Quietly claustrophobic.
Soon I will wash my face, make some lipton and study my fucking brains out. Yes.
He took me to a large ditch-drain-thing under expressways where we can spraypaint graffiti and skateboard-rollerblade. Its nice to have intimate places of your own.
I miss my friends a lot. I've been appreciating so much more of everything. Intoxication does not keep me sane honey, you do. It just spins me out of this loom I've spun around my wrists lately. I think its just called impatience, jadedness. But he's a petal. I'm quite a dying fag (who has rediscovered things in brighter whiter more pristine light).
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[04 Oct 2003|12:10am] |
he is not like the others
he is virtue
and vice
not knowing he is
but clinging on to beauty
not knowing either
he hangs on to instinct
and the strangest voice
in his pretty head
his inner boy
my happiness will one day
crack
like his life
as a snowglobe
except it is filled with sunlight instead of snowflakes
and he is the darkest boy
sitted in the corner
with the prettiest most kissable mouth
i am the girl
who rests his hot head
on my cold hearted bosom
i slowly melt.
into him.
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| SCHOOL |
[29 Sep 2003|06:12am] |
Won't you believe it
It's just my luck
No recess
You're in high school again
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[28 Sep 2003|01:27pm] |
dust dust
golden
azure
rose tinted
sky
in the placement
of a wine
glass
cheeks
the blush
requires a flush
of liquer
preferably
whiskey to
disentangle and engage
me in serene disillusioned moments.
agreed? yes.
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[27 Sep 2003|08:36am] |
I had dreams shifting in and out of things like losing Faidzil, being pregnant, being alone, crying. Why do I dream about things that I think of every day anyway? I used to have amazing dreams. About Jeff Buckley and mediterranean beaches and a council of spiritual creatures who advice me on things, quote me beautiful things I've heard before in movies and bits from books. Now I either don't dream, or I dream of fear and paranoia and wake up with my elbow joints aching. Aching from swinging them around, trying to get out of that ebony forest my dreaming creates. Then there's a dull ache at the back of the mind, some soft 'oh fuck' defeat, when you wake up.
Haunted in your days and in your dreams.
I don't have the security I crave.
Never txt me or call me while I am asleep. I will answer your calls asleep and return your txts asleep. I will not make any sense at all and I will appear possibly a fucking asshole. This morning Faidzil's mother was admitted to hospital and all I answered in reply, because I was stupid and asleep (its like being drunk almost), was 'So you're not going to the gig then?'. After, I realised my idiocy, and we had a talk on the phone, and today might be one of the worst Saturdays I'll be experiencing.
But how can a day so beautiful be so painful? Look, the sun is shifting down my hair, which reaches to the centre of my back, and this composition always makes me feel beautiful. But its going to take me so much strength now, to lift my ass from this chair, to the shower, then to college, and it will take away so much of my strength, if I look in his eyes, and I see defeat.
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| Poem. |
[25 Sep 2003|08:14pm] |
There is light
Unfolding in her hair
She is on drip
He is her drug
Together they are
Pearl white light
Her back is broken
His ribs arch
Like butterfly wings
His pelvis
Her mouth
Together they glide
Silk on lovers skin
Stinging hips
Down the crooked rash
Of her thwarted spine
You break my bones
in exchange for her
broken heart
Together
She weaves her tangled veins
with his
Mangled mind.
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[24 Sep 2003|10:48pm] |
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you know that feeling of your heart being tossed in the air and then killed by a bayonet, yeah its called heartache and the way gravity works on my throat now, the desire to flood tears but the inability to do so. i havent felt this in a bit and every night, its like a ritual, my stomach crashes into my intestines. the worst thing is that even after all the transition phases and the ways by which i solve my problems, i still prefer a hard drink to sorting things out with people you love. the latter is an impossibly fucking hard task, and i'm just not up for the challenge tonight. sometimes i wonder if i'll one day just give up on life, this big challenge. one day where one million bjork songs can't save me and double the number of jeff buckley songs can't describe my pain wholly.
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[23 Sep 2003|11:57pm] |
Strange days have found us. Days that smell of inhalants and paint thinner, compelling me to borrow James Joyce 'Poems and Exiles'. Tonight I was going to breakdown, but thank you Bjórk for being so fae. Her music's ability to hush me and punch me back into my system is amazing. I have his potrait by my desk, with him in some official uniform that makes him look like a military stud. I don't like the way he's gazing, its a hidden kind of gaze thats very very unspoken. There's something sad in his eyes. And something utterly kissable by the ends of his mouth.
Tea cup stains on this turqouise desk and my cds are scattered all over. I spent the night looking at tattoos and deciding to get inked and pierced all over as a method of therapy but actually really just boredom maybe. I'm getting a double navel piercing done. I've seen rosaries around wrists and phoenixes on shoulderblades and its all very romantic and appealing but I'd really rather a Botticelli or Raphael ink me than the local tattoo artist. If I want my body to be canvas I'd want the most beautiful art on me. Its quite a fussy procedure, but I want vines, yes. Vines. I can be a Greek statue then.
I've got vines growing from my lungs encircling my ribcage and stagnating around my throat. I feel sick just thinking of the day after tomorrow. I feel sick thinking of torment. The only thing that feels as though there's metal penetrating through it is my little tiny fucking turtleheart. My whole body feels wrong and I'm going to sleep it over so that I can allow myself to be loved tomorrow.
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