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You are currently reading a thread in /lit/ - Literature

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your diary desu
You don't want to read that depressing shit.
I wrote a poem in my journal once that I liked. Posted it last month. I really don't keep up with writing in it as much as I should.

'find my icy bones
in the cold-drowned woods
where the air ceased breathing'
No but I doLet's all cry together
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deep, i have selected a picture i think captures the sensitive soul of your writing
>Grandma lay there breathing heavily, each moment she seemed less a person and more a thing. She might die in a few hours, or in a few days. Though for me she is gone already, the morphine and the sickness took who she was before death itself ever could.

Stunted and crummy, but it's how I felt
That's neat. I wrote in my diary sometime last year,

'my frost-covered bones
on the ebonite mountain-top
where even the Venti have quit.'
To do:

-Doc appointment @ 10:30: finally get those ADHD meds and make money

-clean pepe folder, discard nonrares

-read for 60 minutes minimum (OK, just read a few pages at least)

-nofap/no porn: check!
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"Are you allergic to dogs?"

She opened her trench coat and puppies came pouring out. The coat collapsed into a sea of squirming, writhing puppies.
Yah feel

Watching my grandfather gradually fade with alzheimers has been the same. Now there's just an underlying sense in my family that he's a burden, which kind of sucks. He's like a relic. Or a white elephant.
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This is from years ago, this one page really captures the vibes coming off the other fifty+
Here's a random series of disconnected sentences I found:

Wrapped in a golden fleece.

That material silence; cemetery in the afternoon, still gray.

Everything vibrated, hummed about, beat to the ebb and flow of the music of oncoming traffic.

Childhood possessions: the most precious thing in the entire world, a separate limb.

A phone call: a shout down the main street of our global village: dixie cups strung between buzzing antennae, nation wide silk.

Few have the words desired by the many, the utensils to paint fleeting portraits posed by intangible cities of souls residing within their own cages made of ribs.

The masseuse Thanatos, crowned Redey, douses hot oil upon my skin, washing woes eternal, for but a blink.

Ostensibly impenetrable, the maze's beauty lies in its transparency.

His thoughts scrolled, line by line, down the teleprompter of his mind's eye.

Some things remain forever out of reach, at the edge of the flat earth where Godiva rides her white mares bare, and dragons breed in unquenchable rings of fire, rising; for though sight pokes at the infinite, our world lies hopelessly on an asymptote at arm's length, a waning precipice.

His days' constant oscillations between harmony and discord took on a melody of their own, resembling Coltrane, Schoenberg, an artist whose fame came only posthumously: the tempo of chaos transformed imperceptibly into an irresistable musical mess in which he found himself comfortably strewn and enmeshed.

The human journey lies to its travelers, telling them that the road is generally straight, winding only ever so often, that they are not subject to that very same Brownian maelstrom that causes chambered gas particles to continually collide, intermingle momentarily, and drift apart indefinitely–due to no will of their own.

If the nature of genes are the ingredients to the recipes of man, then nurture is the preparation, the handler's instructions, Grandma's tutelage, and so on.

Some people seek to solve their problems on television: on Oprah or Dr. Phil, on reality TV, on game shows, on the news, and most ridiculously of all, on the Maury Povich Show.
that is nice
Probiotic hormones deliver us from evil: my gut tells me this abandoned applause, pleading for a double-dose of gooey pie. But these innards are not alone. They form a highly connected infrastructure in which the rich beg and the poor burn down impossible edifices that house the faces of mistresses and half-chewed dog bones. In the impasse between left and right and right, the writer hums a static volume of somber keen sounds from that deeply hidden compartment where he keeps childhood souvenirs. These deal out deposit slips for the pre-afterlife matinee of scenes between stutters and sleep. For, his is a wedding of intrinsically paternal skydiving down to a rock puddle of needles and marshmallows and that look women give your rushing blood cells, cells founded on backwards DNA. Down these boulevards of inexplicable terror and confusion and love as we have here in the graying dark, a level of scaffolding collapses and renovations are held off for a better climate; for man is an institution, fed back inside and out to self-sustain and maintain good internal posture for posterity's needs, and for his own justifiably unruly wants. Raise or be razed: the alma mater of success is no instructionally bound labyrinth of right-turns, distilled into a framed scrap of pulp to be flaunted like diamond grill-fire, but of experiential digestion–the constantly unfound pursuit of sharpening battered machetes to sell for displaying in the jungle. And so, now for what, what exactly other than but at the end of this pen though was the point?

To pump the spigot and water the plants, that's all.
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M-more please?
I'm covered in blood and I couldn't be happier! Kiyo is back. Or at least, it seems as though she is back, which is likely the same thing in such matters. She told me that I'm boring. (this in addition to the usual stupid, useless, and disgusting). She wanted me to set my car on fire to collect the insurance money. I told her that was bad, and she said so what, we've cheated before (and gloriously!) I told her I would probably go to jail, and she said so what, there are cigarettes in jail (cigarettes being a semi-reliable method of invocation). I told her if I go to jail, I can't finish college and thus break more interesting rules such as by hacking. She assented, but demanded a token from me. She made me cut my arm and completely coat this book with my blood. She may have given me her true name, or she may have lied to me. When I invoked her tonight, she made it clear that she felt it was purposeless; this is why she has been absent, coming only during danger. The fact that I am disgusting etc not helping. I know it's a bad idea but I record her "true name" here: [redacted]. Google shows it's a common fantasy name. Summon me when I'm dead.
Here are two silly poems I found:


Desolate arenas occupy fertile land
Taut rope wraps around godless hands
The field proffers a single dried peony
that shouts out to thee "please pee on me!"


Today was yesterday and yawns are tomorrow's children
Horrid are the knights in armor
when they ransack the pantry
Enough of people, people are enough:
make no sense, just bluff.
Since No means Yes, don't bow behest
Fresno the Yes/No. Hi Dick Contra.
Clown of the classiest circus
is the most mostest Sherpa
who "didn't come here to hurt us,"
said insecure security guard Mike.
"Stop," said the GoPhone in Limbo,
and the billboard continued.
Half of the staff was withered thin
the res of the crest was in sin.
But–butt–hip flex pot hoarders cry
when the slimmest jim alive don't die.
This isn't a wrap on Christmas.
This is nonsense in the clearest.
St. Everest mounted a billygoat
while Stack-row-nins slowed notes.
In sync, Nsync syncopated saved
the empty holes in Swiss cheese.
Blank is a page drenched in blank,
so now I'm writing on a skank.
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This means a lot. Really appreciate it–!
Well it's been a while since I last bothered to write anything–to journalize. Why? A combination of laziness and apathy, among probably a host of other variables like drugs. I just snorted 30mgs of oxycodone with 40 in my belly. It feels nice, like a warm blanket in an unheated room–my room. But euphoria in pill form is fleeting, shallow, in a word, cheap (save pecuniarily). Oxy doesn't make me happy, of course not; drugs can never fill that ravenous cavern crying out inside myself to move, to do. And as I do this, writing on drugs on drugs, I sense a breath of motion move through me, like this narrative is more than a simple set of words on paper but a means to contentment. Bukowski once wrote: "Find what you love, then let it kill you." These words killed him, but what or who will offer me a victimless homicide? Life, seems like an appropriate answer (or an axe-wielding wife). But life/love is built on something: philanthropy, dope beats, journalism. Yet I'm lost. I don't know what I love, not only to do but at all. No, that's not totally true; but love allocation is a complex thing. People say all you need is love (at least Air does), that it catalyzes the will to do, to be. But for birth and death, love is necessary to make it to the grave smiling and unscathed. How do you love what you do if you can't do what you love? And the words dry up, stop at the door. I feel my life is a resource to and for myself to appropriate as such and that if I misuse it I go bankrupt, fall into a recession–a depression. And love is the credit, the reason to continue rather than burn the white flag and be still, inactive. The past three days I occupied my precious time with loafing in a bed long over-due for fresh sheets watching The Wire, House of Cards. My days are locked in parentheses, only tangentially related to anything important. So I must erase and become: fucking do something, work, act, anything. And I needn't worry about failure, or even dedicating myself to a meaningless cause, because from where I sit, doing anything is an improvement not in vain. And because meaning doesn't inherently exist, it is therefore forged–now to begin my apprenticeship under Haephestus. So no matter what it is that I decide to do with my life's blood, I must do it a step at a time, even in baby steps. See, I've always envisioned myself in a state of success: an ideal created by my toxic expectations and unwarranted entitlement to unaccomplished excellence, even fame. These are stupid and narcissistic delusions of grandeur. I can't teleport to success, which is defined as lasting happiness in my book. No, in order to get to that somewhere that people "going places" go, I have to keep my eyes on the road, hands at 10 and 2, and keep on keeping on, even without a map. People have done that for millennia, for posterity, for themselves. They had no maps; they made them as they went along. All they had was an idea, a will, and destiny manifested itself henceforth.
There is no secret to greatness, just consistent diligence and action. Still, the question looms: what do I want to do? Well, now, I need a job, to raise my GPA, to explore. If I can master self-control, motivation, the GPS of my mind will tell me where to go. I just need to relinquish all expectations and idealized self-images–for they can kill. This applies heavily to my perception of intelligence, which is really just a measure of one's functionality: smart people know what they want and get it. I barely even know. Still: potential can only be discovered through trial and error, through doing. And I'm terrified that my all isn't what I'd imagined it to be. Maybe it's just exhaustive thought, something to do while I do nothing. Hmm. I desperately need to dispose of all and any thoughts about my brains, and any other potential insecurities, because they only lead to misery through perpetual and invariable letdowns, cyclical anger, and social anxiety. The man in my head is only a fantasy, that is until I introduce him to people: Mr. [REDACTED], man of __________. The blanks only fill in through operational paper-work. In fact, I think have homework, but am i going to do it right now? Probably not: haven't learned a thing. Not ture. While Rome was not built in a day, it was conceived much quicker than constructed (and often in tandem) and, for what? Posterity: the preservation and continuation of human life? Now to set out conceiving. No. Doing. Feast is the contract killer. In the end we're all dead–!
Ok, the last line got me.
Your reasoning is inconsequential and nothing follows from nothing, save in topic. That said, take any sentence in isolation and it's pretty well written
Hey thanks, I appreciate it.

And I'd hardly call it reasoning–! more like unilateral tinkering with tchotchkes of the mind *chuckles lightly*
I feel apart and took my mind with me. i have been barely sustaining
My pain just marinating. i fell apart and took my mind with me. just a
Ghost cloaked in lies with a broken spine. i fell apart and took my mind
With me. just an unrecognizable creature caught under an avalanche
I fell apart and took my mind with me. my presence unnerving. im a
Shadow always lurking. surrounded by death. even the towel rack
Reminds me of the handles pallbearers grip tightly on the way out of
Church. what they use to lift you up into the back of that hearse. i see
A woman tighten grip on her purse. can’t be offended. she doesnt
Know my intentions. she imagines the worse. around here. the
Conditions severe. around here. you tightrope between detachment
And fear. between the shattered fragments of existence that collapse
And appear. never changes. just exacerbates depression deeper year
And year. pain weaving in. pain weaving out. heartworms. sharpturns
Sparsewords. scarsburns. i spent a long time dying. dont wake me up
Yet. public executions. you’ll never see me upset. forcefed myself with
Blow but now i settle for sedatives. no longer in the street. i belong in
The crevices. positively negative. popular ive never been. hard to be a
Person when you lack the metal requistes. emotionally deficit
Consumed with all the wretchedness. not optimist or pessimist. my
Politics are in exodus. spouting countless fountains out while drowning
In the brine. my lifes the foulest algorithm science can't define. they
Trap you in these systems that are phallic in design. because they fuck
You in the mind. boy. they fuck you all the time. i fell apart and took
My mind with me. being strung up at the ligaments with cultural
Derivatives. i fell apart and took my mind with me. pronounced dead
By a nemesis. a doubt with a benefit. i fell apart and took my mind with
Me. just a cluster of atoms thrust deep in a chasm. i feel apart and now
Your mind is with me. smoke in your eyes. the worlds a joke in disguise
Havn’t written for like a few weeks. I feel progressively worse, too. Said I was taking notes, instead wrote this since, well, I don’t have any Internet either. Nemas Internetas. So.. Writing. Havnt spoken to my friend for a long while. Like, a few weeks. I feel pretty bad, as I wrote. As if I’m on the brink of crying, every single time. Right now, too. Still writing though. I thought everyone would mention Hitler just now. About speeches.. So i mentioned hitlers. It’s obvious that the teacher thought I was wrong. But it doesn’t matter, really. I don’t care. I’m just slowly awaiting the sweet embrace of not having anyone to live for anymore. Perhaps bleak, but still. Not sure if I want any friends at all.
Then no one would miss me?
They’re discussing speeches, and I’m just watching. Rethorics(rhethorics?) seems mildly interesting to me. Making a speech would be really fun, after all. Besides, it’s a valuable skill… In the future, I’m going to go a class on communication and leadership. Don’t know why I’m bothering. Just being thrown out, or given a week to become thrown out, so I can kill myself in peace. Hella grim. But hey it’s true isn’t it. And I’m still writing this for me rather for whoever might read. I probably won’t ever publish it. It’s just for whoever will sneak-read my email, or over my shoulder, or in that one blogg I probably won’t have. But hey, I’d appreciate the attention, if anyone ever paid it to me. Fuck. Fuck me, fuck this, fuck all of this. I’m going to stay the night with granddad, since dad would be at some party. Well, not a party, perhaps that’s spiteful me to say so. To a customer christmas thingie. Whatever. I’m going to meet grandad though, so that’s nice. And to spend the night, too, Nothing good, nor bad. I’ll have to check the bus times, so I make it there in the morning. Sad that today is not tommorow. Grandad has friends over tommorow though, so it wouldn’t work terribly well. Fuck me, half his friends are dead and he still throws parties, while I don’t get invited to any. A 78 (i think) year old man has a better social life than me. But then again, he’s a remarkable human being I think. Something like out of humans of New York. A shit Facebook thing. But hey, that’s the end of my lesson. So, other things to do.. See ya.
Depression -- ebbing.

This is good, better. I need to figure out what I'm doing right

Tomorrow I need cancel plans to make sopressata with my uncle -- girlfriend coming over -- I feel like an under-performer in his presence anyway. I should feel that way, but she doesn't seem to think so.
It's cringy as shit, now that I reread it.
But hey, it made me feel slightly better at the time, so that's nice.
4th August

Did nothing today again.
Watched mindless anime about the relationship of highschool students. Considered doing something to change lifestyle and get motivated; no idea how. Want to become active, and fit, but I feel like ignoring these desires. Considered trying to motivate myself by holding value in my middle name; reminds myself of a past that had happiness without thought. Is there an end to this lethargy? One where my (something) gives ground (something) (something) it should (something) it? Will I wake up one day and possess my purpose? When will that be?

How can one live with no dreams. (?) Only material desires?
I'm not sure what that means in this context but I'll take it!
End of 5th August

Did not go out for walk today; had no motivation to take a shower. Got too late to consider a comfortable walk as well. Might take a shower tomorrow, depending on how I feel. Almost forgot to make a diary entry; hope I won't next time. Again watching anime the whole day.

Fictional lives are seemingly more eventful than 'real' ones. It's like looking into a mirror, the wrong way up, while upside-down.
I think I might be worried about my chances of getting into University. Can't be (something); can't remember mark(?) of 'worry'. Still feels empty. Have not thought more about joining a club, though that is something I should consider.

This term feels like a blizzard. The footprints of my past disappear, with no knowing what lay ahead.
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"Why does time seem so sluggish? I cannot help me. I am becoming withdrawn. The cycle falls on me again. The cycle is far less potent than what it once was. The benefits of the cycle are mostly absent. Once again the gibbering returns. The dragging isolation of the demanding gibber is upon me."

No, I am not pmsing.
Last found journal date before death

End of the 6th of August

Although I failed to go for a walk, I managed to shower, brush my teeth, and even got dressed; though I am sure i have disappointed myself. The impulse to go for a walk is over-ridden by a compulsion to lie still all day. Time is and isn't. At points, its existence is eternal, and at others, a whim. It feels impossible to describe, but I try. I had a strange dream last night. I had slept with a woman, though neither success nor happiness were found. Only regret, and shame. This is the first dream in a while. accomplishment(?) for me. In the moments of Ecstasy, our expectations peak beyond the sight of our horizon, shattering fantasy, and what we call reality. The pain we (something) ourselves by our desires and the burdening change left to us: be it the motivation to more (something), or the faltering of our footsteps.

Flames blemish(?) by the future of others.
this is some subtle faggotry, not being offensive, actually is great and entertaining...
Post more
Trips confirm desu senpai
Yeh, all right.


Shenandoah: 6-14-15

There are seventy-five scenic vistas overlooking Virginia from Shenandoah National Park, and while I should know better than to say something so cliche, every one truly is better than the one that came before it. The blue forests cap the hills that roll and intersect and run in every direction like waves on a pond, trees packed so tight you can't see a single rash of dirt.

We caught the 33 north to the beginning of Skyline Drive near Front Royal, but only after getting bewilderingly lost in the patchwork farmland and spiderweb roads of Elkton. I learned two things while trying to navigate us back to a road not lined with dirt or gravel: I am hopeless at reading road maps, and rural Virginia is crazy for churches. At one point my mother counted four churches within a single strip of road no more than a mile long.

The churches here probably serve a dual purpose, not only as houses of worship but as the locus of community gathering. Life in rural Virginia seems like a solitary venture. To have a place where one can feel like part of something greater than themselves is paradoxically crucial to establishing a personal identity. Perhaps social media is the newest incarnation of this urge; finding ourselves within the context of a larger global community.

But something is lost in the digitizing of interpersonal connection; there is always the feeling of distance, the protection of relative anonymity, of being able to hide behind a meticulously crafted persona and present to the world only what you want to show it. The greater the distance between each other, the deeper the division within ourselves.

To be with a group of people, though, in flesh and blood, is an irreplaceable feeling. A spokesperson from NASA gave a lecture tonight on the LADEE program and then led a dozen or so campers outdoors for stargazing. As the piece de resistance, the International Space Station made a partial transit above the horizon, and there was something uniquely timeless about that moment. A collection of human beings--perfect strangers from all over the world--standing in silence, looking to the stars.
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W-what? Okay, if you like cringing I have no dignity.
not as good as your first post, btw it's no cringy because you express what you feel without the intention to surprise somebody
So what happened with John?
i just re-read it, there are some bits of cringe but not in excess

this more John
random one from October 2014
A lot of these are poignant and redolent for me, I'm reminded of my time thru hiking the AT with a golden fleece.
John saga part 2: the very next pages

the blurb about schizophrenia is strong foreshadowing for what happened next
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Wow I am way too stoned to 4chan. Also I just watched the Revenant and every time I blink I see gore, which is a second layer of distraction.
are you bisexual m8? i would like to know about Heidi too, and of course more John
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Yeah I'm bi/pan. Heidi was FtM. Here is red text continued
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More John
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This is where it gets kinda fun. A continuation from the last pages this entry is when I began to realize what it is like to fall for a paranoid schizophrenic
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last time I wrote about him

I want to die
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A wild slap in the face appears!
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I'm engaged to this guy now.

John ended up being taken in by the FBI for questioning regarding his public posts of detailed plans to assassinate Obama about a year after I wrote these. He screamed "YOU TAKE IT UP THE ASS! YOU TAKE IT UP THE ASS!" until he was hoarse during the armed standoff, tackling, etc.

Heidi painted a 6 foot tall copy of my face at the end of the school year, but I never went to see it because it creeped me out. I tried to catch up with her this fall and she deleted her FB mid-conversation. Whoops.
pic releted desu
This took place long after Christmas lunch w/ whole family and J-'s clan w/ blond whore w/ butterface w/o/ sunglasses from side and unappealing body and fashion

It was 11AM again. At least in my head. I just drank at least an once of hydrogen peroxide – by accident. This comes after 4 more 4000mg sinus meds to kill my inflamed jaw, two cups of heavily milked down coffee and a 1200mg B-12 supplement that I know works becuase I took it Thirty minutes ago and I feel like I just woke up again, 72 hours after waking up.

I'm going to take a shower ans write. Fuck stress. Thomas Bangalter is too good for my shitty words.

P.S.: Before I hit the shower, the water in the sink smells like coffee.
Those were a good read with a satisfying ending.
Getting a haircut today which i'm excited for because my hair is getting long and I hate having hair that's too long.
Haven't read anything in a few days so I might try to read some today.
Been drinking and eating too much food lately so I think i'll try to cut that out because i'm getting chubby and I get ill every time I see my reflection.
Been getting bored of everything so I need to find new exciting things to occupy my time but can't think of any.
those were good bro. for real
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
Morning: a winter sun, glitter on a thin layer of old ice; later: gloom and a crosswind.

I realized today that there is no safe way of crossing the bridge over the highway on Garfield at the Red Line. When the PCD lights up with the image of the walking man, there is a dedicated left turn for the cars at the light, but the line of cars congested in wait for this turn is always so long that it moves across the crosswalk at the same time that the pedestrians do. Some days, for seemingly no reason, the PCD is broken. On the bridge, the air coming from the cars moving down the highway below is formidable, and the concrete crossing itself seems as if it will crack and fall at any moment. The area is always swarming with buses and people being dropped off at the train station, with other people honking behind them for holding up traffic. Once there were cops swarming the area, who informed me that someone had reported a fake shooting there. The pole across the street next to the bus stop has an image of three black men with a warning that they are a group of thieves that prowl the Red Line: it's impossible to tell what they look like from the pictures.
2bh I'm just waiting for my parents to die, I don't want them to be sad when I kill myself
The common poorwill differentiates itself from frequent birds with seasonal torpor,
and this, despite our breaths, is the most common characteristic between us;
I, however, happen to find myself reluctantly hibernating,
nauseous with listlessness and scavenging repetitive scenery with only two eyes.
Spring will prevail, the poorwill will move on, and I, soil-ridden, will appropriately decay.
I eventually included this in a short story.
Ist anstrengend gewesen, aber wieder nur mäßig schlimm. Habe meiner Mutter gesagt, das sei sexuelle Belästigung, würde sie mir noch einmal den Arsch anfassen, würde ich ihr eine klatschen, habe gestottert, weil es beinahe einstudiert gewesen ist und entsprechend falsch geklungen hat, weil ich eigentlich ja auch gar niemandem eine klatschen will. Morgen soll ich bei der Schule vorbeigucken, werde mich bald schlafen legen. Hatte gehofft, morgen meine Ruhe zu haben, aber die zwei Stunden, die ich da höchstens unterwegs sein werde, werde ich schon auch noch überleben. Freue mich auf mein Bett. Werde mir jetzt einfach immer die Mittelfingernägel glitzrig lackieren, statt in der Schule irgendwie anderweitig auszudrücken, dass ich ein Individuum mit Willen und Rechten bin, sollte mir das nicht zu pubertär erscheinen, sobald ich nachher ausgeschlafen habe. Spülmaschine ist mir noch zu laut bisher.

Habe mir noch eine halbe Valium eingeworfen, ein paar Lines gezogen. Sollte bald ins Bett hüpfen, könnte noch so 15 Stunden Schlaf bekommen, würde ich das innerhalb der nächsten Viertelstunde auf die Reihe kriegen. Kann halt auch schon gar nicht mehr klar denken. Ich glaube, ich mache das so.

Ich muss in zwei Stunden das Haus verlassen. Habe Angst davor, was ungut ist, bin gestresst, weiß nicht, wie ich das ab nächstem Monat Tag für Tag hinbekommen soll. Müsste ab Februar auch schon um acht Uhr morgens dort sein. Habe 15 Stunden geschlafen, was sich wie viel zu wenig angefühlt hat. Das hat natürlich mit den Drogen zu tun gehabt und der Tatsache, dass ich gestern 24h lang wach gewesen bin. Ist trotzdem beängstigend alles. Wenn ich mir überlege, was für eine Überwindung es allein schon kostet, aus dem Bett aufzustehen, um mir einen Kaffee zu kochen. Weiß nicht, ob ich dazu in der Lage sein werde, wieder regelmäßig aus dem Haus zu kommen. Ich hoffe, es wird einfacher werden, sobald ich mich einigermaßen daran gewöhnt haben werde. Dazu müsste ich das natürlich erst einmal so lange hinbekommen, dass es zur Gewohnheit würde. Ich hoffe außerdem, mich würde das nicht so sehr stressen, dass ich nach drei Stunden in der Schule schon wieder völlig dekompensieren würde. Ist besser geworden, aber die psychotischen Symptome sind schon noch vorhanden. Ich kann besser damit umgehen, sie machen mir weniger Angst, ich kann diese Ideen verwerfen, statt mich stundenlang damit auseinandersetzen zu müssen und dabei immer kaputter zu gehen. Weiß nur nicht, wie sich der Stress darauf auswirken würde. Ich sitze den Großteil des Tages im Bett noch immer. Ich kann inzwischen Brötchen kaufen. Ich kann sogar an mehreren aufeinanderfolgenden Tagen beim gleichen Bäcker Brötchen kaufen und dabei kann ich der Verkäuferin ins Gesicht sehen, wenn es sein muss. Aber ich werde stundenlang außer Haus sein müssen, fünf Tage die Woche. Werde nicht alle zehn Minuten rauchen können. Das hat so oder so ähnlich seit sieben Jahren nicht funktioniert.

Dear diary,

I asked out Tracy from work today. She said no. I'm kind of happy that I had the courage to ask but I can't get over the fact that she said no. My dick kind of hurts from all the crywanking I've been doing for the past few days. I need to take a break from everything. I'm thinking about visiting my parents for a while.
„Habe Lachkrämpfe, kleine, bei denen ich Angst haben muss, weißte.“

So ist das nämlich. Hätte gerne Eistee. Wenn ich mich überwinden werde können, werde ich mir einen Eistee besorgen. Ich habe nun eigentlich schon länger keine Probleme mehr, in Jogginghose auf die Straße zu gehen, aber diese hier ist gepunktet. Was ich mich auf die Schule freue. Wie ich mich nach dem ersten Vormittag schon nicht mehr freuen werde. Ich weiß ja nicht, es ist wenig los hier. Habe noch immer nicht einmal wieder damit angefangen, Musik zu hören. Letzte Nacht im Internet Skat gespielt, hatte vier Buben auf der Hand und dann verloren, weil ich den richtigen Knopf nicht gefunden habe, den ich hätte drücken müssen, um das Spiel zu beginnen. Habe auch überlegt, mal in eine der zahlreichen Spielhallen zu gehen, die es hier in nächster Nähe gibt, müsste mich mal erkundigen, wie hoch da der Mindesteinsatz wäre und ob man da auch Skat spielen könnte. Spieleabend wäre vermutlich die bessere Idee, wobei so eine Spielsucht sich nicht entwickeln sollte, während man Zugang zu Heroin hat. Habe mein Tagebuch scheinbar eine Weile lang „Alter“ genannt, bin mir nicht sicher, wie unangenehm mir das jetzt sein sollte.

In D haben sie versucht, einen Flüchtling abzuknallen, bin ein bisschen traurig. War mir ein Kaltgetränk kaufen, keinen Eistee. Drogen sind noch immer nicht wirklich berauschend. Es ist Mittag, mal sehen, wann ich heute ins Bett kommen werde. Ich weiß nicht, ob das an den Drogen liegt, dass ich momentan ständig so lange wach bin und so lange schlafe. Dass ich so lange schlafe, liegt an den Drogen, meine ich, aber dass ich auch so lange wach bin, wundert mich. Kann nur noch bis morgen Arthouse-Filme sehen, wäre wirklich ein guter Zeitpunkt, mit den Drogen aufzuhören. Mindestens zwei oder drei Tage sollte ich nun sowieso auf Benzos sein, was ja was anderes ist irgendwie. Lyrica wären besser gewesen. Will gerade nicht sterben. Wenn die Schule mich nicht nimmt, könnte ich mich im Fitnessstudio anmelden, könnte dann ja nachts gehen, da sollte es eigentlich nicht allzu voll dort sein, stelle mir das sogar spaßig vor. Hatte mal einen Ordner mit Thinspo-Bildern. Das wäre mir mittlerweile wahrscheinlich auch unangenehm. Zumal ich damals fast noch mehr Kaffee habe trinken müssen, als ich das momentan tue. Ist alles gekommen und gegangen. Wie die Psychose und die soziale Angst jetzt ebenfalls einigermaßen abgeebbt sind. Die Suizidgedanken sind seit Jahren da und das Drogenproblem wohl auch, ob erstere jemals verschwinden werden, ist fraglich.
„Dysphemismus“ ist angeblich das Antonym zu „Euphemismus“, ist also das, was ich mache, wenn ich mich einen Stalker nenne, einen richtig fiesen Stalker, womit ich aufhören sollte, weil die Spasten es nicht verstehen, weil die Spasten alle Narzissten sind, die beispielsweise ihrem Therapeuten sagen, sie würden sich schlecht fühlen, dass sie mir nicht hätten helfen können (indem sie mir Whiskey ins Gesicht gespuckt haben, um mich zu wecken). Die das zumindest mir so erzählen dann. Ist eigentlich keine der Personen, die ich mit „Spasten“ da eigentlich gemeint habe, aber ein Narzisst ist B dennoch. Habe noch immer das Gefühl, die würden auch sagen, was sie so sagen, weil sie wüssten, dass ich beobachtet werde, aber könnte natürlich auch bloßer Versuch sein, mich zu manipulieren, oder vielleicht sehen sie sich selbst wirklich so, oder sie haben sich gebessert, oder sie wollen mich ärgern. Ich glaube, es ist Versuch, zu manipulieren. Ich hoffe, ich nehme das nicht ganz richtig wahr. Da ist halt schon eine ziemliche Dissonanz zwischen dem, was er sagt und dem, was er getan hat. Viel davon ist lange her. Ich wollte auf Abstand gehen, bevor das wieder zu unharmonisch würde. Mal sehen, wie es morgen sein wird. Ich mag das nämlich nicht, dass ich dann den Stress mache. Er hat etwas getan, was falsch gewesen ist. Aber ich habe das Gefühl, auch etwas zu tun, das falsch ist, indem ich immer wieder damit anfange. Er hat sich nie wirklich damit auseinandergesetzt, ist halt so die Sache, ich muss es bei so ziemlich jeder Interaktion tun, die ich mit ihm habe. Häufig auch bei denen, die ich mit anderen Männern habe. Er wirft mir das vor. Dass ich ihm das vorwerfe. Was ich wiederum ihm vorwerfe etc.
Ich bin abhängig von dem Typen, weshalb ich das so hinnehmen muss. Er weiß das viel zu gut. Manchmal habe ich halt echt das Gefühl, er würde sich Mühe geben. Dann wiederum fühlt es sich kalkuliert an. (Womit man sich ja immerhin auch Mühe geben kann.)
Verstehe mich blöderweise als Menschen, der sehr viel Mist gegenüber eigentlich tolerant ist, den man gar nicht manipulieren bräuchte, ich kann auch selbst nicht gut manipulativ sein, wenn man mal davon absieht, dass ich gerne Mitleid zu erregen zu versuche von Zeit zu Zeit. Aber vielleicht sehe ich das falsch, vielleicht versteht dieser Mensch besser, wie ich in der Hinsicht ticke. Verstehe halt auch nicht, weshalb man jemanden überhaupt großartig manipulieren wollen würde, was vielleicht darauf zurückzuführen ist, dass ich keinen Penis habe, den ich irgendwo reinstecken möchte. Ich möchte ja nicht ständig jemandem irgendetwas vorspielen müssen.
Ich mag halt nicht, dass das nachher so weit geht, dass ich mich dann entschuldige dafür, dass er mir Dinge angetan hat, aber ich kann nicht ohne diese Person im Moment, und ich kann nicht mit dieser Person eben wegen dieser Dinge, ich kann diese Dinge nicht aufarbeiten, ohne dass diese Person sich damit auseinandersetzen würde, oder ohne diese Person aus meinem Leben zu entfernen. Ich wüsste halt nicht einmal, was diese Person machen sollte. Sie hat sich halbherzig entschuldigt, aber das hat also eher so geklungen, als würde sie diese Dinge dennoch jederzeit wieder tun. Was sie nicht tut. Was sie, als ich sie das vorletzte Mal gesehen habe, um zu ficken, so ein bisschen getan hat, als ich gerade nicht aufmerksam gewesen bin, wobei ich allerdings ganz am Anfang wenigstens damit einverstanden gewesen bin, dass wir Sex haben und es jetzt auch kein Blümchensex würde, und diese Dinge auch wirklich marginal gewesen sind, weshalb ich mich nicht beschweren möchte, ins Detail darf ich jetzt sowieso nicht gehen aus Gründen, die hoffentlich Paranoia sind... ich meine, dass da ein paar hinterhältige Sachen dabei gewesen sind, hat sich da wieder bemerkbar gemacht, in solchen Situationen merkt man dann halt, dass das im Grunde noch dieselbe Person ist, die mir Whiskey ins Gesicht gespuckt hat, um mich zu wecken, um mich noch mal ficken zu können, bevor meine Bahn nach Hause fährt, weil ich tagsüber noch eine Runde geschlafen habe, weil ich nachts keinen Platz im Bett gehabt hatte und morgens direkt weiter gesoffen habe... ich weiß nicht. Das ist dann halt wieder erst ein Jahr her und keine drei bis vier Jahre.
Weiß gar nicht mehr, was ich habe sagen wollen.
Dass man dann ins Gesicht spritzt, ohne zu fragen, nachdem man gerade so hart und unerwartet geschlagen hat, dass die Person kurz dissoziiert.
Oder dass man das Gesicht in die Pisse drückt, ohne zu fragen. Oder den Finger mal eben in den Hals. Dass es kein Safe-Word gibt. Ist auch ein bisschen doof wohl, da immer vorher zu fragen, aber ist schon grenzwertig gewesen so insgesamt. Dass man die Person jeden Tag besoffen macht. Jetzt bin ich doch ins Detail gegangen.
Und das sind halt eben nicht einmal die Dinge, über die ich mich eigentlich zu jammern trauen würde, eben weil sie so grenzwertig sind. Mal ganz davon abgesehen, dass sie auch so ein Stück weit restschambesetzt sind. Hat mich nach hinten umgeschmissen, obwohl ich gemeint habe, ich wolle das nicht, da ist er dann allerdings schon fertig gewesen. Aber auch darüber beschwere ich mich ja gar nicht, weil ich mein Maul nicht richtig aufbekommen habe in der Situation. Weil es so schlimm auch gar nicht gewesen ist.
Es wird halt keine Rücksicht genommen auf die Bedürfnisse der Person, mit der Benjamin zu tun hat, wenn es nicht gerade darum geht, dass es dieser Person so schlecht wie möglich geht. Ich kriege dann mein Maul wirklich nicht auf. Ich öffne es leicht und dann wird ein Penis reingesteckt, oder wenn das nicht möglich ist, wird mir irgendein Scheiß erzählt. Und ich nehme das so hin, weil ich dann wenigstens nicht alleine bin. Ich würde es halt auch wirklich gerne glauben. Ich mache dann Ausreden für ihn, ich überlege mir, was ich falsch gemacht habe. Und ich kriege mein Maul halt auch tatsächlich nicht immer auf, aber das auszunutzen, zeugt halt nicht gerade von Rücksicht oder ähnlichem.
Würde nicht nach vorneüberkippen wollen, habe ich gesagt, glaube ich. Ha. Ha.
Wenn ich jetzt irgendwelche Pissewitze im Internet lese, gehe ich Leute anzeigen. Habe drüben sogar ein Notizheft in der passenden Größe gefunden, keine Ahnung, man hat mich wohl zu oft betrunken gemacht, vielleicht bin ich das teilweise sogar selbst gewesen.
Ich weiß nicht, dass ich mein Maul aufbekommen müsste, das ist vielleicht etwas, woran ich selbst tatsächlich auch arbeiten könnte, ne. Ist halt wirklich schon immer so gewesen mehr oder weniger. Ich habe halt B gegenüber mein Maul halt wirklich schon viel mein Maul aufbekommen mehr oder weniger. Sollte mit den Serien fortfahren.
Valium hat sich wieder bemerkbar gemacht, scheint es. Serien.

(Random entries from this month.)
Wow, a real vivid description. I enjoyed reading that.
Wehleidig und schlecht geschrieben obendrein. Umgangssprache wechselt sich ab mit Fremdwörtern, die nicht so recht passen wollen. Warum B schreiben, wenn er an anderer Stelle Benjamin genannt wird? Starke Verben, die gleich wieder abgeschwächt werden. Soll das kokett sein?
Hoffentlich wird nicht mehr gepostet....
like the winter sun
so piercingly bright
but its warmth
could not reach me
Das ist ein Tagebuch. Es dient dazu, sich den Mist von der Seele zu schreiben. Habe da keine großartigen Ansprüche an mich selbst.
Dass du gewisse Fremdwörter nicht kennst, ist nicht mein Problem.
Ob ich "B" oder "Benjamin" schreibe, hängt übrigens vom Grad der Paranoia ab.
Das Wehleidige soll selbstironisch sein. Ich hoffe, das beschwichtigt dich ein wenig.
Hätte noch rund 400 Seiten hier, solltest du unbedingt wollen :3
January 16, 2016

Dear Diary,

Today I saw anon staring at me in math class. What a creep! He's nothing like Bobby Fletcher <3 <3! Bobby would be all mine if it wasn't for that slut Jenny. I swear she spray tans!! What two bit skank!

Got my haircut but i'm not super happy with it.
Decided to get drunk again today so reading anything is out of the question.
At least I don't have to worry about being bored now that i'm drunk though.
Maybe tomorrow I'll stop drinking so much.
are you there? yes, you, you who are reading these words right now. it's me! it's you! sometimes these things seem like they don't make sense but i can assure you, my good man, that there INDEED and AFTER ALL is an underlying scheme, a plan if you will, hidden - or maybe not hidden, but indeed in a way, a puzzle of thought and careful deliberations and innuendos of which you can sometimes see - but only fragments! they come as visions, inexplicable, covert and abstract, like a smell of an afterthought lingering in the air after a furious debate, yet something that cannot manifest or otherwise; what a mystery! your silence speaks behalf of you my man; i know this ramble is as coherent as the wit of an infant monkey staring itself from a mirror and not recognizing the being that stares back. it is late and my mind is weary and loins burning as hot as ever. so we shall see, we.
Last night, I had sex with a stripper. We were hanging out in some private room because she wanted to do coke. There was already this humid sexual atmosphere all around so it wasn't hard to convince her. I didn't wear a condom, so I ought to go get tested soon. She gave me her number but I left the stripclub without paying for any drinks or dances, so I won't call her, since she may try to set me op for the debt. I have been in bed all day recovering from last night, and I probably won't get out of bed at all.

That's my most interesting entry, every other entry is basically the same because I lead a boring life.
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th-th-thanks senpais
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2001, Thailand

first time loaded sideways for some reason
Is everyone on lit a depressed asshole?
It comes with the territory. I identify with a lot of the writings here, but deep down I know I lead a very boring life with too many comforts resulting in narcisstic sef-reflection, so I stopped writing. Now, the only reason I get out of bed is to fulfill my ethical duty to the other, which is joyous but is ambigious in fulfilling my life.
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A fairly old entry dated late October, immediately following an impromptu series of romps throughout Manhatten.
You write like an ass
Your "voice" is terrible and a real chore to get through. That first fucking sentence. Jesus
Why is my voice terrible?
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Last page I wrote before I went to bed yesterday.
i tend towards depression but i'm a nice guy, not an asshole.
No, you write like an ass.

It's not terrible as he says, but it could use some work. Consider the reader.
>"Two days ago saw me conquer nicotine in a fit of boldness"
"Conquer nicotine" would most likely describe a person quitting a longstanding cigarette addiction. Therefore, the sentence scans as if you quit your smoking habit, cold turkey, two days ago. That's not what you actually meant, I don't think. If that's all you meant by it, the sentence is too garish for its purpose. I think you're "conquering" nicotine in the sense that you're trying it for the first time.

>"I just wish that cigarette lasted a minute."
This sentence is connected to
>"The cohesion of our group dissipated like tired embers in the October brisk."
There's a metaphor there between the dispersion of your newfound éclat and your first experience with cigarettes, and those cigarettes burning out - "tired embers". Ostensibly, you recognize the ephemerality and unsustainability of both. The first sentence messes with this metaphor. You didn't necessarily "conquer" your new friends, nor did you experience them for any lengthy duration as a misreading of your first sentence would insinuate.

Changing that one word would improve the sentence - and the entry as a whole - significantly.
>"Two days ago, I acquainted myself with nicotine in a fit of boldness"
This new sentence not only preserves the metaphor but strengthens it, tying the initial experimentation with nicotine to the act of making a social acquaintance. It also retains most of the sentence's original meaning at some cost.

I'm not sure if this advice will improve your writing as a whole but it will hopefully provide some food for thought.
im gonna grab a diary because of this thread
Thank God people still write. Most mellenials couldn't even read this.
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heres my diary you guys should guess my sudo-nam lol
For KK:

iam alius partus Tiberius. nam ille varie disserebat de magnitudine imperii sua modestia.
What I really need is to get clear about what I must do,* not what I must know, except insofar as knowledge must precede every act. What matters is to find a purpose, to see what it really is that God wills that I shall do; the crucial thing is to find a truth which is truth for me,** to find the idea for which I am willing to live and die.

* How often, when a person believes that he has the best grip on himself, it turns out that he has embraced a cloud instead of Juno.

** Only then does one have an inner experience, but how many experience life's different impressions the way the sea sketches figures in the sand and then promptly erases them without a trace.
Thanks for your input, that was a very cohesive and consistent dissection of my entry and I appreciate your impetus to provide constructive criticism in the fullest. In retrospect, I feel that my entry was a bit immature and primarily an experimental amalgam of numerous styles I had absolved into myself. I agree that I could have consciously edited some sentences to maximize the palatable quality of the text. I believe that my most apparent flaw in writing is the jaggedness with which my sentences flow into each other, and the locus of my demographic. I tend to write for myself, for a cathartic ends. I think that a restructuring of my impulsive stream of sentences is due.
I am not the man you responded to but I feel obligated to tell you that there is no need to restructure or augment the manner of your stream of consciousness in any way. If your writing is truly for yourself then do not make any changes unless you feel a natural compulsion to do so lest you produce what lacks the sincere and therefore attractive quality that your posted entry holds. If you wish to get your work sold then that is a different matter as then you cater to others as opposed to yourself which of course is despicable. Stay sincere brother and if your writing succeeds in producing the catharsis you value then there is no reason to change a thing.
I wrote this after watching a documentary on Ingmar Bergman.

If the lights from the town
Fades away against the trees
I’ll stay until I’m found
Like wave sculpted rocks
Through a glass, darkly I see
Life sculpted by clocks
If the day when I fade
Is plagued by sunny rays
I’ll stay beneath the waves
That's really cringy
Yeah, it is.
January 14

Brooms dust my window
Gentle strands of rain and soot
The sky unravels

Each drop is chafing
Like a thicket of branches
Driven in a storm
Idk if she likes me but her bff desire said she thought i was cute but idk she's probably teasing me maybe desi likes me too idk i don't like her but maybe I'll give her a shot idk
>I want to appreciate Borges like others do … ahh, but I may as well try and catch the wiiinnnnd

kekking at myslef
My balls ache like the summer in the wintersome grip of my arse hole. but without sweet fragrances
I cannot face the onslaught of stench hours and minutes, pouring over my dick, like baby mice pour over the dicks of larger mice with perverse tastes.
Youtube channel pls?
I want you to bully me, /lit/. Here's an entry from a journal that I wrote when I was 14.

"They say that he comes in our last moments, during our last breaths. He's known as the bearer of tragedies, the one in charge of granting people eternal rest, be it in heaven, or in hell.

He is not biased, though. He's a part of nature, his actions are the ones that keep the wheels of oir world moving. We have lived our moments, and at one point or another, our tale must come to an end.

With a painful apathy, and an offensive ambivalence, he smiles a smile from ear to ear, viciously grabbing our hands and taking us to our final destination...The destination that everyone must arrive to.

We are all aware of him; we all know that he's waiting around the corner, maliciously waiting for the opportunity to take us into the abyss.

We shan't worry about it, though, because death is eternal; therefore, if we want to worry about the inevitable, we can do it when we are surrounded by that which is inevitable. During our life, we must give in to joy and pleasure, we shall celebrate the grandeur of our life, the magnificence of our presence.

We only have the now once, yet, we have it at all times."
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"Not so much in summer, but more in winter, we realise things."

Yeah, I don't know either.

Selfishness/isolation offends those who have rationalised their obligations to other.

If you do not serve God you must find something in the material realm to serve—the body.

The only freedom is in serving God and constantly striving to elevate your thoughts beyond the material.

Whenever you're not working towards your own freedom (internal & external) you're serving the Archons.

Sun Dec 6 1am: good day. Wrote read journals for thesis & exercised.

Tomorrow night will be tough. Hopefully a movie will have come in the mail.
Bad trips are preparation for death—death is a bad trip you need to keep your head for to reach ascension. When you die you'll be tempted to cringe & that expression will be like Han Solo's cryo container—frozen for your entire next incarnation. 'I should have done x' will be the subconscious message that is transmitted to your higher self to inform it's decision of which being to incarnate as next
Lambert should be meticulous, his foil should be lazy.

I would read more if I had a comfy chair.

I have so much to read. So much to write (Murray). So much money I need to make.

The important thing is to observe oneself as a character in a movie. TV has conditioned us so that we must all strive for this ideal. NO NARRATION. This objectivity creates an aesthetic bliss. But it can have no patience for hesitation. One must be a man of action, even in a state of inaction. Wu wei. Silent power. To constantly be scribbling in one's notebook. To be the star if ones own movie means to disregard the unseen, which is all uncertainty. All of the anxiety just moments ago, it's just static. Reception problems.
Planning my day is liberating. It takes control out of the hands of the architects and engineers and allows me to go against the grain.

I have reached a level of energy that is incredibly volatile if not properly distiller, rarefied & capable of causing psychosis/death. That is why every moment is life or death. If my energy becomes misaligned the consequences are much higher.

"The true path is along a rope that is not spanned high in the air, but only just above the ground. It seems intended more to cause stumbling than to be walked along"
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>he still hasn't realized the desires for transcence and survival are one and the same
W-why do we all write the same guys?
Great minds think alike.
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