mayeb

 Plants may flower, some may wilt

the cockroaches remain

* * *

dreams become reality, or don’t,

 the real will always be there for us

till we give back the time we’ve loaned

and all the solid becomes rust

april

 im so happy to become who i have and to keep becoming,

but im losing what i was, and i can't help but feel that pain.

Years later

 What makes you love a person?

What constitutes love?

What about you did I love?

What justifies pain?

Am I responsible for your pain?

Do you even realize what pain you’ve caused me?

Would you ever?

Or would you prefer to keep living in your own world,

caught in an endless flow of nightmares.

* * *

No one will ever know and who can ever judge

All we can do with the past is leave it be, move on

And the most justice we can do is to avoid repeating

the same harm that we’ve caused or felt before.

* * *

Did I love you?

How far is a light year?

reads donna tartt and goes to yale once

 https://poetrysociety.org/poems/with-rue-my-heart-is-laden

With rue my heart is laden

For golden friends I had,

For many a rose-lipt maiden

And many a lightfoot lad.

By brooks too broad for leaping

The lightfoot boys are laid;

The rose-lipt girls are sleeping

In fields where roses fade.

“Epigraph” [7/19/23, 21:25]

the past had a meaning that will always define you. I remember this as being the first moment as an adult when I realized how powerful memory was. Or at least, it was the first time it hurt the most.

And also realizing there was nothing I could do about the pain of the past: it just settled over me. [My memories] were a part of my life that happened, and now they were gone. That was all. No one else knew about it, no one cared.

- The Shards (Serial), Bret Easton Ellis

excerpts from "All the things i am fucking up -- in miami " [10/16/23, 19:08]

 

the picture of miami that's painted outside my window tells a story. but like most stories, it is, from this distance, a lie. if you look too long at any point of it, or read too far between the lines, the lie reveals itself. announces itself, quiet at first, but louder and louder until you zoom out and you realize the lie covers the entire canvas and your glasses are all fogged with it and nothing else even seems like it can be seen otherwise.

i knew this going in. i knew so much of what im feeling now i would feel. i knew too that i wouldn't want to feel this. im also actively denying myself this. why am i doing this to myself?

* * *

the feelings are abstract, poetic, beautiful, and so on, and that's fine and great. the solutions are practical and simple and easy and that's fine too. [...] enjoy my life but in a productive way, be happy in a not-so-secret way, find someone to love, move forward, be ambitious, and all that good stuff while still being emotional and caring and true to myself and recognize that's OK and in fact there's no other way to do it.

* * *

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WFmCCxMp7BE

 

꺼내 먹어요,

 In haruki murakami's pseudomemoir, "what I talk About When I talk About Running," he describes writing to him as an excruciatingly painful process. Writing is like a marathon. it's all about momentum, rhythm, lulling oneself into a trance, going one step at a time, misery, frustration, blocking that all out, and oh not to mention practicing practically as hard consistently. That's what writing is like for him

Other writers feel differently, I imagine, though to be honest off the top of my head I can't really think of any good examples.I think for other people it's different; I think for me, at least, it's different, though sometimes when I can't think of anything to write I think about Murakami and how miserable he presumably is every second of his writing, and I tell myself to force it just like he must. But then again, I also realize that I've never ran  a marathon or really any long distance foot race so truthfully I'm not sure I actually do know the exact intricacies and nuances of what he's attempting to convey.

If I were to try to explain what writing feels like, I don't think I could deny that it feels like there's an element of "forcing it." That's probably true, though, of any creative or really any productive exercise. Writing code is the same way, or doing homework, or getting one's chores done and so on. So much of life is about that force, how you produce it, how reliably, how effective it is, etc. etc.

Murakami's daily routine is a pretty picture. As I remember it, his days would consist of eating simple meals, running, swimming (he was living in Hawaii for part of the book's narrative, Cambridge for the rest), drinking, and then hours and hours of sitting at a desk writing and revising all of which I believe were related as various places on the unhappy side of the spectrum of enjoyment. Maybe that last part isn't so pretty but I think it actually reveals something interesting, at least to me. Obviously again, not everyone is the same -- but if something resonates with you, I think there's nothing wrong with trying to take it seriously. It's got to be possible that something original, interesting, creative, and yes beautiful can come out of a process of toil and components that are largely rote and in at least in part uninteresting and painstaking. I suppose that's somewhat obvious when you think about the process by which anything worth remembering in the world has been made...but to me I think it's worth a reminder every once in a while

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fiGSDywrX1Y