((Goethe))

"KUNST IST ETWAS, WAS SO KLAR IST, DASS ES NIEMAND VERSTEHT" ((KARL KRAUS))

I can't write and everything seems so incredibly slinkily superfluous, escaping from in between my fingers. It is a sullen nothingness, slipping into something of normalcy. My brother has written a story about Pacman's pie, something that is innocent and strangely grownup and I couldn't help helpless giggling at, with, Steve this afternoon.
I can't write my essays, so many essays and it is so easy to forget every little single thing that is important. It doesn't matter at all right now, now because nothing matters at all, to anyone. It makes me sadder. It makes me want to do stupid things to leave this place, just to think maybe..
"suffering is needless unless you are in love."
In all it must mean that I am perpetually in love, but with what? Because I can't tell quite what it is; but it is everything because it is consuming enough to frighten me. What you mean no one else gets paranoid about losing hours of their lives and suspending these flimsy rules of physics? I don't believe in physics. I don't understand who I am looking at. Is it possible to read this and not read it at all? I think punching myself harder will work, but why? German is a spiky-beautiful language, ugly-beautiful; that I aspire to, more than French? Romantic and confusing but beautiful, brittle and so thin and meaningless. German has the weight of all those hideous things, equations and rules of physics, philosophy and heavy handed suffocating religion that I want, only sometimes, so badly to belong to. It rains in my dreams and it rained all day and all night and I wanted to go swimming in the rain. French is a game and frivolous and I think I hate it because it's beautiful and I want to be it. Only sometimes. I don't think I can decide anything. I going to attempt to write these essays now, because just about everything depends on my ability to dribble on about these things I am told.

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending: