I refuse to accept the ingrained belief that in order to achieve pure happiness in life, one must find love, and therefore choose to spend a large part of their life as a hunt for said love, admiring and deifying anyone who could theoretically hold such a valuable asset.
The idea of being dependent on someone else to fulfill one’s true potential in life is dodgy to me. At least scares me.
The percentage of people in the world with overwhelming flaws is astronomical, at 100%. To bet one’s happiness on the flaws of ours is madness. And these flaws have created all the mutations of this idea of “love”: lust, desire, infatuation. And our attitudes towards those are just as hideous. The idolization of complete strangers for their physical aspects is repulsive.
But it’s been ingrained in humanity since our existence. And it’s very practical, with procreation and all. And I know I’ll never be able to avoid it, and never be able to live happily on my own. Which makes these purgatory periods hellish, pun intended.
It’s excruciating to be without love or any prospects, and be okay with that, but to simultaneously know you can’t keep it up, and to see everyone else so sickeningly happy with their current involvements.
burde ikke ha vært overraska, jeg
skulle ha visst at gode ting varer ikke, jeg
at det e aldri kjærlighet egentlig, at jeg e for ung
at jenter sårer meg alltid. ALLTID. og nå e det klar at reglen har ikke noe unntak.
så hyklersk, det, det håpet
you love me more than i love you, but that doesn’t mean i don’t love you so much that i spend every waking minute of my life thinking about you
in fact the opposite
that’s what i do
i love you more than i ever thought i was capable of. i thought that for the rest of my life i’d be shelled up in a lonely apartment with no possible way of ever connecting with anyone, what with my past. and then you came along and burst my door open and dragged me out into the world and loved me and fuck i grew to love you like the air loves a leaf enough to let it down onto the ground so carefully.
so stop saying i don’t love you. you know i do. and it hurts both of us when you say it, yet you continue with that train of thought.
my love for you is peanuts compared for your love to me. but fuck fuck fuck that doesn’t mean it’s not real, that i don’t feel it as strongly as you feel yours. cause over the past year it’s been everything for me.
if you choose to never speak to me again i understand. but drury lane isn’t gonna be the same.
you would LOVE sognsvann. it’s so pretty.
and it’s right up your alley, that whole nature vibe.
you’d feel like the queen bee inside of her hive
the fresh winter air would get me so alive
and give me the urge to grasp your fingers five
gazing into your eyes blue, then the water blue, then the sky blue, then my scarf blue, and wondering how all these blue things made me feel the opposite of blue.
but that’ll never happen. the logistics don’t work out. plain and simple. needle in the balloon.
you wanna go to burgerville?
when you stopped talking to me for those two horrid days i had a routine
i’d take a bus 25 minutes to my favorite kebab place in the city and order the biggest and spiciest thing they had with the least amount of vegetables and just fuckin demolish it
and then i’d waddle down to carl berners plass where there’s a ton of buses
and if i saw a bus i hadn’t taken before, i’d take it to the end of the line
first day, the 33 bus to ellingsrudåsen. took 31 minutes to get there. it was dark. snowy. cold. i took the subway back home.
second day, the 57 bus. turned out that just made a loop around løren and came back to carl berners in 12 minutes. so i took it again. and then again. and then went home.
my mindset was that i’d rather submerge myself into a pool of introverted norwegian strangers than to have to talk to someone other than you
pepto-bismol blood and bile popping out, bursting, percolating its pink being out its brimming pipes. plausible, blatantly the burdens of the perfect barbie…
ugh that’s really disappointing
mistook you for someone who had common sense
untitled 11 (super mega explicit)
you need to get your lazy ass on a fucking plane to gardemoen so i can greet you with a huge goddamn hug and we can spiral around and shit like fucking pollyanna
and i can speak to you increasingly goddamn afuckinggressively cause my fucking feelings for you are so goddamn intense that it’s the only way im able to get the fucking shit out of my fucking heart with enough gusto
and i’ll be a stream of tears and rage and love and frustration and love, and maybe love
cause you’d be fucking THERE. for the first time fuckin ever. cause we’ve never been given the fucking opportunity to fucking fuck
i know over 15,000 words in the english language alone and i can’t say anything but fuck, cause that’s what you fucking do to me
cause mixed messaging was her form of communication
and no other cellular plan provided clarification
either we bridge this shit with a hold and a kiss
or pretend like we don’t see the underlying abyss
i can’t complain either way, ignorance is bliss
but it’s better to take someone’s heart than the piss.
you don’t know how lovely you are. terribly sorry for quoting coldplay. but it’s damn true.
i mean sure you can say you’re ugly and that you look like a pig but then you’re more like an elephant, in the political sense, in the whole “saying bullshit as truth” aspect.
and who are you trying to convince? yourself, that you’re repulsive? gi deg. who needs that.
you’ll never convince me, cause i think you’re immanently beautiful. sorry. i’m too stubborn.
to be surrounded by beauty is never really a gift, but more a constant reminder of what you weren’t bestowed.
it’s why i hang with the homely who behave honestly.
all the while with the whispering of the white-gowned wonder kids wanting more more more, the next thing more callused than the next, and still seeming so happy amongst their stream of bitching.
cause they get what they want. they’re the beautiful ones after all.
my internal sadistic clock ticks and clicks in anticipation for their well to run dry and for just a drop to hit mine
i must have more than i realize but i just dont feel it
plucking weeds out of the concrete ‘round the embassy.
throw em in a bag, like a mob boss’ enemy.
it must have required a good amount of will
to surface from the heavy ceiling with its fellow dill.
pushing down, prohibiting the little fuckers to grow
and somehow they made it, with their little leaves to show
and i admire those qualities in a friend of me
but i throw em in a bag, like a mob boss’ enemy.
doing what life had just done to me prior
and now i’m returning the favor, fueling the fire
i know they’re pests and shit and they don’t have feelings
but it doesn’t sit well as i pluck more, kneeling.
can someone help me find the exact point where i lost my childhood
and that bridge between it and adulthood was burned and i was just coptered over
when i went from going to the park with friends to power washing an ambassador’s driveway
when i went from hanging out with girls to praying they dont have diseases
cant really remember when i was in a place where i didn’t know the next three places i was moving after my present location
how did i get here
so soft, so secure in its fragility.
so secure in its ability to really be so willingly my escape.
oozing simplicity while enhancing the complicated
sedated related thoughts have made it to the greatest stage on earth
our minds and our mouths, where all our wisdom comes to shape
the atmosphere is complete, not one thing is obsolete
attraction tends to secrete from the sweet beating hearthole that gapes.
now we know what turns me on.
what raises my pulse, eyebrows, hands and other
smother me with your lover tendencies and record more tapes.
we’re all bitterer than before.
so clinically cynical, cynically critical, sinners on the floor.
kneeling for forgiveness without legitimate guilt.
seeking for solace, asking the illegitimately built.
no answer, keep trying, we’re a breed of telemarketers
we’re told to fear god by white collared darkened sirs
and the result are headless chickens
who think that the gays are the root of their problems, good dickens.