always

I wish I could exercise suspension of belief on certain things, instead of effectively and pretty immediately rationalizing away things I don't understand. Call it hubris or delusion or plain intellect, but my gut seems to have a pretty powerful compass when it comes to things I don't understand- I just need to point my mind the right way and pretty soon I'm grasping at the correct straws and straws turn to thread and eventually the rope that leads me out of unknowing, especially for the intangible. But sometimes staying in the darkness seems better. It's more familiar, and like the musty darkness of an old home you garner what comfort you can and it's just enough that you don't want to switch on the intrusive artificial light. You don't have to. I want a baseball bat, so I can smash all of the bulbs and bind the curtains and sit in the dark. Because then, you don't have to face the answers, your answers, and even worse than that, the stupid god-damned shining place where your answers came from. Sometimes I just want to sit in the dark and enjoy the brooding company of my un-understanding, of the pure unknowing that can really set you free. A heart can rest as easy in a tragedy as long as it doesn't have any bearing to anchor itself to. There's more I feel like offloading, but I don't know the words to make them fit. I don't know if I'm too smart or not smart enough, or if I'm too young for my age or too old. And that's how I like it.

Moving

Tumblr.

my favourite song

Hate when this shit happens

foosh

Happy 09/09/09!

Everything's the same.

Two poems

Stephen Crane - The Black Riders and Other Lines
III
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

T.S. Eliot - The Waste Land
I. The Burial of the Dead
(...)
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.