ihavebeenfloated

I should really file this just under fiction, but since none of it is really fiction so much as it is my brain-dump when my head fills up with nothing between classes, I’m going to put it here under personal as well. The majority of this was written over the last week or two. It’s all out of order so some things came last, some first, some in the middle, etc, but really none of it is related to each other so why am I going on about it? Oh, it looks like some stuff is from months upon months ago, too, weird.

P.S. I’m really tired right now.

P.P.S. Things written in the “note” format (IE: blockquoted) are side notes and shit I’ve written on top of, next to, or otherwise in the margins somewhere and I feel that I should include them for completeness.

P.P.P.S. This also includes something I mentioned that I wouldn’t transcribe a month or two ago.

P.P.P.P.S. The majority of this is crap.

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I dodged a great bullet today

And so here we are together. Alone, but within company. It’s amazing how you can be surrounded by people so similar to yourself, but still feel so cold. Have our souls vacated our bodies? Our smiles should feel so full of warmth, but instead they seem disconnected from our essence, making them puzzling and frightening. The sheen of our desolate eyes doesn’t match the movement of our lips, nor the stained yellowness of our teeth.

As a whole, we have all fallen further from grace. We don’t just feel that we have lost touch with God, we feel as if He never existed at all.

This is the common thread that binds us all together. We have been abandoned, not just by God, but our mothers, fathers, wives, husbands, lovers, brothers, sisters, friends, and most of all, ourselves.

Even if we could combine our strengths, the sum would still be less than the whole of a single man who has an inkling of faith in himself.

But we will try, for when you’ve lost everything that matters to you, further failure is not worth avoiding.

---

Sometimes I feel like my head is coming apart.
Am I better off dead rather than continually trying?
Will I ever feel a normal level of happiness?
Why do I always feel restless and unproductive?
Where is my motivation?
Where is my faith in goodness?
When will I be secure?
Who do I think I am?
Where is my supposed brilliance?
I awake in the morning and feel the same
as I did when I went to sleep.

---

When I flip through the maze of books in my mind, everything blends together. This is markedly nusual, as the systems in my head—fuck this.

---

When she opens the bathroom door and looks at me with those big eyes full of mischeif and apprehension, my I

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Note: I wish I could type this one out the way it is on the paper, but I don’t think I can. I’ll try, though.

And Here I am watching life move onward

And Here I am watching life move upward

And here I am watching life move forward

               downward

             I can see it
     living
        below
down
    down

       DOWN
              its life is my own
              and I own myself now
              let it sing secure
              let it be myself
  This is my
       self
   being
    Alive       Even
      when

          falling

               Downward

             toward the dark

---

Jackie was an atom bomb
exploding in my heart
   the way her legs would sway
   would nearly tear me apart
      her breasts would swell at my touch
      her mouth agape
        the words escape
and the fallout spreads its wings
and across my soul

---

She looks at herself in the mirror, pulling her tousled hair back tight across her head, forming the long orange strands into a tail emerging from the base of her skull. She thinks, “I’m cured,” but she purses her lips, eyes herself questionably like a perplexed friend, and brushes the thought away

A hand snakes out from under the covers to grab her wrist. She is caught so suddenly that she barely has time to emit a scream before she is on her back and his knees are on her shoulders, his hand over her mouth, his knife at her throat.

He hisses something unintellihible to her, but all she hears is the howling of wolves in the distance, trying to imagine herself out there with them, screaming at the moon in defiance. If she could encourage it, she would fight the moon off at this moment.

He removes the knife from her neck and puts it on the floor just out of her reach, just to slide his right hand up along her tigh, under her dress. He loops his fingers under the cotton triangle covering her soft mound of pubic hair, and pulls downward.

But she’s gone and can’t experience the terrible things he does to her. She doesn’t feel her body still trying to kick him off. She doesn’t feel his hand slapping her across the face. She doesn’t feel his rough petentration of her. She doesn’t feel his semen seeping into her. She feels nothing until the warm splatter of blood from his neck hits her face, an unexpected feeling bringing her back to her body.

She screams, opens her eyes, sees his empty eyes roll back into his head before his body collapses on top of her.

---

Here’s a page in female handwriting

I’m sorry that we can’t just be friends. I love you and really do want to work things out, but dont know how!

Then, written at a later date is some text I wont transcribe and then the page is filled with “Brad” and “I love you” written over and over again

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There is a certain desperation in him that I see in myself. Perhaps it is in all men. The prosession by Eros, the uncontrolable lust for passion, need, and want. (Written in reference to Disgrace, a book I have not yet reviewed.)

Something we can all related to.

The desire to touch her face, to skim my fingers across that delicate freckled flesh. Oh, to run my fingers through her dark chocolate hair! I can close my eyes and feel it as if reliving a lucious memory that will never fade no matter how long the eternal sunshine of my blemish mind shines on.

And this is what I give to the world, my unrequited longing. From it will come forth the beautiful imagines that only a mind suspended from the reality of the situation can conjure.

Personal comments appear at the bottom that I wont transcribe either.

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Don’t come true
when to hold on
   and when to let go.

         I don’t know.

Two men in a dress shirt, baby seat in back.

And I’m trapped in my seat staring
at her face reflected at me in the glass,
not looking, unaware of me and
that is how it goes. another engaged
woman, but one who is not to be
mine, as I know better, or I know
northing. Not sure which.

Such a tortured soul, oh yes
I have been maimed by this beast
of desire and my spirit bleeds
forth from deep wounds.
they started out small but now
have grown in fested with the
disease of want.

---

[arrow poining downward] How can I make this stanza fit other two.

Tormented by the ghost
the feeling fleetingly present
but fierce in its intentions
alive with a fearful anger
the desire to do things that
must forever remain unspoken hidden

[appears next to above stanza] Bullshit combo of sentences.

And so in this way
I’m falling apart
the pieces individually affected
by the words of her deciet
unknowingly articulated perfectly
to break me down

Blame would be grand to place
but the fault is double-edged
can you really punish the attacker
when the victim makes no claim
to defense?