package lost.util;
/**
* Can you throw down a rope? Something's coming.
* @author Aeg
*/
public final class Mine
{
I feel like crawling up into a ball and sobbing. I want to be on the floor, with the carpet close, rolled into a neat package of self hugging. I want to feel that pre-burn of the nylon carpet on my knees as my cats circle me, their sixth curiosity sense of empathy wondering why I am in the closet, that dark room for shoes and unfolded, floor-bound clean laundry.
Their presence around me, circling, like sharks. Only nurse sharks; no pun intended; exuding aloof concern and vague understanding. Dogs curl up with you and feel; cats play with your emotional aura as they do a wasp. Perhaps the connection is stronger though, with cats. They know, pretending they do not.
Feel is a funny ass word. Look at it for a bit: FEEL. Two Es. I guess PEEL rhymes with FEEL, so it can be forgiven. MEAL. REAL. DEAL. Now verbosity is gone. Two Es.
Boner is a funny word too.
I'm infatuated with the movie 2010. When they replay the final message from Dave Bowman...
{ "my god... its full of stars" }
The raspiness of "my god" almost brings tears to my eyes. That, and parts of _The Thin Red Line_.
{ "where's your spark now?" }
WE are wrong. WE are SO WRONG. Humans are very good at building roads. Lots of pavement, concrete and tar.
Fuck, now someone just played Led Zeppelin on the jukebox, and all train of thought is lost. 1970s music, with the endless lot of repetitious Hard Rock (yeah man yeah) stations playing hours of 60s/70s/80s bullshit drags me. My mind loses the links between the years, and associates the songs with every other god damn time I heard it. The songs become timeless: not in the definitive sense of the word, but in the lost experience sense. 70s Hard Rock is the Mobius Loop of 20th Century expresion. Die bitch bie.
{ " Mobius.... MOBIUS.... something approaches from the southwest! " )
I can feel it. Like my cats. I'm lost, and my social empathy is tingling. I'm circling myself, wondering why the magnetism of my emotional aura hasn't shattered me yet. I can't figure it out, and my orbit begins to degrade.
Roads, bombs and porn. Is that what we are? Big dicks fucking small pussies? Are we the sum of our tiny kittens being destroyed by our stomping feet? Was our soul lost on an accident, or did we sell it for an apple? I don't pretend to know, but I'd like to be privy.
_Brown Eyed Girl_ just started. A bullshit lost song of free sex 1971 contrasted with 2004 Drug Czars and body modification. Wanna go get a 12 gauge septum piercing and go skinny dipping at the quary? Lets drink some rye and go slam dancing at The Earl.
I'm lost, and I don't think my Rorshach cat can bring me full circle. A hard fuck made it easier in the past. Hitting bottom with drink, drugs, sex, and music made it all better in the past. Depression is a sheltering tryst; a mental and bodily shutdown from emotional accountability. The realization doesn't hit until you are better. By then, the damage is done. Regret remains, but you feel better.
It burns.
{ " My Mazerati goes 185. " }
Big tits. Big dicks. Trash compactors. The fucking bolt in your clit. My Porsche goes 190. Where am I? How have I helped us? I bought you lots of beers. I made you laugh lots of times. You might have fucked me twice. Where are we? Are we still in the garden, selling out our souls and torturing our cats?
Maybe I'll stumble over to 9 Lives and have a drink. Then I'll go get coffee at Starbucks and gawk at Charlie while I openly miss Kacey. I really just want to listen to slide guitar and hold hands. Why does beach sand between the toes feel so good when you're there, but so bad when you're back at the condo?
return ;
} // public final class Mine
/**
* Can you throw down a rope? Something's coming.
* @author Aeg
*/
public final class Mine
{
I feel like crawling up into a ball and sobbing. I want to be on the floor, with the carpet close, rolled into a neat package of self hugging. I want to feel that pre-burn of the nylon carpet on my knees as my cats circle me, their sixth curiosity sense of empathy wondering why I am in the closet, that dark room for shoes and unfolded, floor-bound clean laundry.
Their presence around me, circling, like sharks. Only nurse sharks; no pun intended; exuding aloof concern and vague understanding. Dogs curl up with you and feel; cats play with your emotional aura as they do a wasp. Perhaps the connection is stronger though, with cats. They know, pretending they do not.
Feel is a funny ass word. Look at it for a bit: FEEL. Two Es. I guess PEEL rhymes with FEEL, so it can be forgiven. MEAL. REAL. DEAL. Now verbosity is gone. Two Es.
Boner is a funny word too.
I'm infatuated with the movie 2010. When they replay the final message from Dave Bowman...
{ "my god... its full of stars" }
The raspiness of "my god" almost brings tears to my eyes. That, and parts of _The Thin Red Line_.
{ "where's your spark now?" }
WE are wrong. WE are SO WRONG. Humans are very good at building roads. Lots of pavement, concrete and tar.
Fuck, now someone just played Led Zeppelin on the jukebox, and all train of thought is lost. 1970s music, with the endless lot of repetitious Hard Rock (yeah man yeah) stations playing hours of 60s/70s/80s bullshit drags me. My mind loses the links between the years, and associates the songs with every other god damn time I heard it. The songs become timeless: not in the definitive sense of the word, but in the lost experience sense. 70s Hard Rock is the Mobius Loop of 20th Century expresion. Die bitch bie.
{ " Mobius.... MOBIUS.... something approaches from the southwest! " )
I can feel it. Like my cats. I'm lost, and my social empathy is tingling. I'm circling myself, wondering why the magnetism of my emotional aura hasn't shattered me yet. I can't figure it out, and my orbit begins to degrade.
Roads, bombs and porn. Is that what we are? Big dicks fucking small pussies? Are we the sum of our tiny kittens being destroyed by our stomping feet? Was our soul lost on an accident, or did we sell it for an apple? I don't pretend to know, but I'd like to be privy.
_Brown Eyed Girl_ just started. A bullshit lost song of free sex 1971 contrasted with 2004 Drug Czars and body modification. Wanna go get a 12 gauge septum piercing and go skinny dipping at the quary? Lets drink some rye and go slam dancing at The Earl.
I'm lost, and I don't think my Rorshach cat can bring me full circle. A hard fuck made it easier in the past. Hitting bottom with drink, drugs, sex, and music made it all better in the past. Depression is a sheltering tryst; a mental and bodily shutdown from emotional accountability. The realization doesn't hit until you are better. By then, the damage is done. Regret remains, but you feel better.
It burns.
{ " My Mazerati goes 185. " }
Big tits. Big dicks. Trash compactors. The fucking bolt in your clit. My Porsche goes 190. Where am I? How have I helped us? I bought you lots of beers. I made you laugh lots of times. You might have fucked me twice. Where are we? Are we still in the garden, selling out our souls and torturing our cats?
Maybe I'll stumble over to 9 Lives and have a drink. Then I'll go get coffee at Starbucks and gawk at Charlie while I openly miss Kacey. I really just want to listen to slide guitar and hold hands. Why does beach sand between the toes feel so good when you're there, but so bad when you're back at the condo?
return ;
} // public final class Mine
VIEW 23 of 23 COMMENTS
and...my brain hurts now.