I wonder if you are the clockmaker: 24 October 2011

I need this journal. I need my own words breathless and sparked and nonsensical and hurtful and published and worrisome and anxious and the death urges. My anemic emotional handwriting that may not be my own, alone. No right, no wrong, too much caffeine and not enough water. Notebooks, lyrics, flimsy paper, fighting, commas, cafés, languages erupting from our tongues, we use our mouths. You are eclectic in your sweater and knits and patterns and dirt. You are dirty you are my everything I do not love you I cannot love anything.

The weeks flying by, on your wings, your time, your clockwork. I wonder if you are the clockmaker. I remember certain vibes, an atmosphere made of dark silk, menacing mind waves and ugly paintings and things I want to say. Emphasis on expressionism, that’s all it may be, it may be a mix of things that only add up to the color brown. Beige confusion, milky coffee, spontaneous chance music happenings, words I’ll never say.

Intoxication, bubbling happiness released from neurons, endorphins, a bottle of happiness with a message from the sand, the seaweed. Notes of importance, plans, thoughts, ideal worlds of shittiness, popularity, the girls of yesterday, my dreams in fleeting underwater images, your bottled message floating away unread, my catharsis somehow wrong if anything could be wrong.

My bad choices leading to dulled pencils and no sharpener. On and on, and on forever, and we’ll still never interpret correctly. It’s not beautiful, it’s probably meaningless sadness mixed with longing and regret and distrustfulness and made up words and no words, just fragments of lost pictures, of too much ice cream and far too few moments in this life. Of dissatisfaction and the tone of your voice.