things happen to me when i get depressed, lonely, or generally wierded out: i become a strange breed of hermit/blabbermouth. I talk if i need to, but i only say the same things over and over again, like no one can hear me. it never does any good. no one ever really stops and tries to listen to me, to ask me what is going on, and so i avoid doing it until i get really bad, then i explode, become comfortable in a haze of forgetfulness, and start over again.
certain things exascerbate this condition, and others abate it, but i find myself returning to it as long as i am lonely. not that my communication skills are top notch the rest of the time. according to a certain unnamed assassin i am rude and i talk down to people, even those i know are intelligent. i'm never sure what to make of this source's comments though, and whether they are more a personal mis-interpretation of everything i say and do, or whether they are the only one with the gumption to tell me the truth. i just want more people to shoot me right in the ear. i'm never sure, because i generally find that those i think would have the insight, intelligence and balls to tell me something like that aren't offended by my mannerisms. so we turn and see that what i am doing is turning and seeing, never beyond my small scope, for i have yet to find the power of torque, and the step needed to lift myself onto that corkscrew going back upwards, so i can start walking forward again.
i find myself wondering whether this again is one of my fruitless babblings, or whether this is actually me talking about what i really feel...but then i try to figure out what i really feel and i find such silly bubbles of irrational emotion, just sitting there expanding with no thought to how much thickness of outer surface they have left until they pop, waiting for me to sit idly and be serenaded by their abusive gobs spewing behind my back, or to turn and spit sharp objects at them until i hit something dead on and tehy all come raining like so much spit pushing its way through my esophagus. and you can interpret which way it is moving. and in the end i'm still no closer to finding out what i really feel because i can't see through the childish emotion i never learned to pass quietly by and look behind before those huge bubbles explode and cover my eyes. i want to see those delicate desires hiding on the inside of the film of those huge bubbles, and i can't find a way to drain those balloons and stretch them like dead animal skins, attempting to make the letters legible.
what do they say god damnit!?
this is becoming too much, and i start to desire the things which i have attempted to dissect. tires become like what we have made for them:cradles. babies sit in them and float away, the bliss is only equalled by the passions which people beyond motion can attain in one spot. even food is too much for them however, and i find myself missing some option in between babies on wheels and old men in beds. the world only wants decisiveness, or indecisiveness, whichever they deicde upon, and either one will get you in trouble if you want too many things. so i decide upon nothing, and in the end, no one will decide upon me, and then i will die in peace, lonely, and i will have given my death to the world as i spouted in repetition, in equivalent words equalling:
"this was my death and my life, oh ingrateful pile of genetic success! you only have yourself by mere chance and molecular graciousness, and you will never pass the science of the gods, given to them by their fathers while their mothers gave them words to enact it. you never knew those words, only you thought you could, and this is where you went wrong: not only did you try to speak them, but you attempted to wield them to prove you were perfect and immutable in your ways. but you were merely the wafer-thin crust of what they intended, and they never gave you words like they spoke, only their byproducts. you are prouder than you might survive by, and the death of me, like any other, we will know this! The continuation of this disease is when we do not listen, and when we do not ask our mothers to speak these things to our children."
and the people never read their own writings. all the work they put into everything was left to fall into the dust as they walked in circles and drove themselves deeper into the dirt. sunlight came down on them as they were still partially above ground, until the walls of their walked down tomb made their way to reassume their own cycle, and fell into themselves.
we walked ourselves to and through life and death.