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[13 May 2008|12:16am] |
I've been to far off places, kissed the lips of an aphrodite, spent hours mentally dismantling the universe, i've danced on the reaches of the edge of nirvana, and yet I still get a slight buzz from the fact that I am friends with Morten Harket out of A-Ha on Facebook.
Nobody has lived until they have experienced the lucid delights of the Norwegian popsters. I tell you. Hunting high and low is one of the greatest love songs ever written. Don't believe me? Listen to it. Now!
I haven't quite come to terms with the fact that i'm off on holiday. It's rather unreal. I won't be able to accept it until I wake up on Wednesday and I don't have to work.
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[13 May 2008|12:28am] |
My passions for you are tribal, unrelenting, and raging. A storm breaks my even sunset. Lightning crackles across my dawn. Horizions heat up and thick orange glows cast across my skin. Each breath of you is growth, every slight glance a new shoot in the ground, a new flower. I lay in corn circles acheing for you to break through, to join me. Goose pimples bump into life, ice cubes form and glaciers melt. It's like i'm in love with you, and yet, i've seen eons pass and earthquakes split our earth. I've never felt better.
I could live for a thousand years just to see you sigh in happiness. I would battle back the raging winds of death, just so you would smile and say it back. Oh, I could go through a thousand heartbreaks, just for one with you. You are addicting, you challenge, you are life. Every syllable you produce is pure, every letter a carress, and every single utterance is foreplay. You heighten senses nobody else can, with just a single touch of your nib. Ink from you spills across me, like butterfuly kisses.
Flutter across me, just once. Spin my head, let me put my hands through your hair, just once. Freeze me in a painting, daub me in your sincerest memory...and I will do so in kind. I would paint us in incendiary colours, reds, yellows, and orange...black, as your eyes hit me, deep purple, as gods break break and wine across our bodies, green, as our love grows...
The fantasy of you to me is like fruit ripening on the tree, and never falling, never bruising...the clash of your lips on my neck is like the summer spray of a humid rain. Each fingertip you place on my stomach, my belly and my arms is individual, as if given their own soul and life. Every single fibre of me is sent into rapure by your tiniest attentions.
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[13 May 2008|12:31am] |
As you will have no doubt worked out, that is about sex. Not just sex, but what sex should be. I fucking loved writing that. It's horny, but not obvious.
Anyway. That's it for now. Thanks to the moth christ for the tunes, Billy Chigballs for the comedy, and the Slit enquiry for the political stuff. Goodnight.
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[13 May 2008|06:21pm] |
I've decided that Facebook is a terrifying Orwellian device, created by some sort of Big Brother style interface. Or Skynet. Every time I use it, it's like being in some sort of futuristic world in which everyone can be seen, and nobody is anonymous. It's like 1984 with status updates. Every single time I use it, I feel like it's grown another appendage, an eyeball, surveying everything I do. It renders humanity null and void; people become micro chips. Disturbingly, everybody knows exactly what everyone else is up to. It's like we're all in on it, and yet, we're not, because we don't know who's watching us, and when.
I have no doubt that one day i'll be on the job (Assuming I ever manage to forge a relationship with a woman ever again) and i'll have a flying Facebook auto-drone, transmitting all of it onto Facebook, accompanied by an auto update, stating "Phyllis is about to come."
Well. Could 'appen.
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[13 May 2008|06:55pm] |
There are moments when i'm overcome with a desire to scripture life as I did so some time ago. This is in part due to not having a stimuli, something i've discussed with certain quarters before, and while this is definately true, there is a whole wealth of things that I cannot write down here primarily because they would be seen by too many eyes and too many eyes that know me, personally.
For instance, I could write these things on a friends only, or private basis, but there is still a part of me that yearns for this writing to be seen, and appreciated. It is a double edged sword, in every sense. This dispiriting dilemma causes me to almost fall out of love with writing. For instance, last week at the bingo, I could have written and fleshed out the amusing bits more, but I just didn't have the heart.
I also think that there is a danger of five years of writing this diary, there isn't much new to say. So many, so many nights i've written either liquored up or not, of my feelings, my loves, my thoughts and my emotional euphoria and/or decay.
Now, during that time, i've come to the conclusion that I can no longer really write how i'm feeling, even though I want to see it, and I want it to be seen. Because I think it would be good. I'm just always too worried about how it would look. What who would think, and what who else would think. Being honest, there are things I would write about things that I would not necessarily be candid about, hence my sometimes opaque points in recent postings.
There is also the worry I have that my mental energy, and brain power is decreasing. I hope it isn't, but there are days when I feel like my mind is set up only to do the best it can to get through the day, and no more. Communication is difficult, words don't come to me easily. Then there are the days when they come all too easily, and yet I can't write them down. The inner censor bounds into view in his stupid hat and placard, intervening, banning the words from the outside world.
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[13 May 2008|07:04pm] |
Today is a divine day. It's a breezy and atumunal day hidden like a gemstone, sparkling, effervescent, refreshing and cooling. Like an oasis in a desert, during this heatwave. I love it. I try to enjoy the heat, really I do. I am thinking about going to the beach soon, but I am body concious. When I was a child, I used to love swimming. Due to my slender frame, I could speed through the water like a fish..ducking and flitting and diving, rising and bursting through the watery ceiling. I used to love skimming along the sea bed, and crashing out of the waves like a dolphin. I used to look up and see the sun shimmering like gold, and then the blast as it hit my wet skin.
Ace. However, inexplicably, I developed a complex about my body. Primarily, this was to do with my chest, which was commented on at school by some cunt called Darren. I can't remember what it was really, but it made me think I had moobs. For the unknowing, this means "man boobs", and you feel like you've got tits. Now, I like tits, but I don't like them on men, certainly not this man.
I don't have moobs, far from it, but i've always since felt self concious. Ever since that comment, in fact. It's astonishing how one single comment can affect someone in a negative way. When somebody said to me once that I was "nicely built", it meant a lot, sure, but it's almost as if the bad things mean more. It's only now that I start to remember nice things people say rather than the bad.
In 1993, while watching tv comedy hit series "Sledgehammer", I reached down my back to find an itch, and discovered my back was covered in spots. It shocked me, and it was a double whammy to me, because my face was covered too. This all contributed to my self image problems, and I had trouble going out in public, and forging friendships and relationships.
So that is why. Nowadays, that back problem is very nearly cleared up, and I look decent enough, but i'm still nervous about getting bits off. The beach is the test, I think.
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