117 lines
6.8 KiB
Plaintext
117 lines
6.8 KiB
Plaintext
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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SoulDome
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--------
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i live in a room constructed by myself. it's not the tangible type of
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room, nor the type that you "crash" in when you need a place to sleep or
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hang out. my room crashes all on its own. it's soundproof and airtight,
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and the only thing that leaves it externally conspicuous is surface
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tension. that is to say, if you inflate a balloon under some dirt, the
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dirt's going to shift a bit to make room for it.
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everything stays inside. nothing may escape until the pressure's gotten
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too much and the balloon will pop. for some reason, i have a deathly
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trepidation of the room exploding. not so much in and of itself, but...
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but just what would happen. i'm sure it's something that i wouldn't want,
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were i in a sane state of mind (is there such a thing?). it might be
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self-destructive, or maybe just plain explosive. bloody or cacophonous. i
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would say "hateful or just a bleeding of despair", but i've been noticing
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more and more that the line separating those two is smudged into a pastel
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blend. there's almost no difference at all. none except how the light
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reflects off of them. anger is a fighter's despair, and desperation is a
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vacuous anger. desperation is all the energy and anti-energy of hatred
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with the fight removed. if anger is a serrated knife, then desperation is
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a serrated handle.
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the room itself is kind of like a window. not like i, myself, am behind a
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pane of glass, but as though something within me is. i suppose that,
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should it be true that such things as souls exist, it is my soul
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contained by this alienating cellophane. like there's just some...some
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block between my body and something within it, and each needs the other
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so it's just hurting both. like two lovers in cells a little past two
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arms' reach apart.
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in short, it always feels like something's missing. i don't know what
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"it" is, nor "something", but..."it" needs that something, and that
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something is not in "it". everything has this unmistakable and
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disorientingly bewildering sense of lacking something. everything is a
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broad term, eh? needs to be. "everything includes how i feel, what i
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think, my ambitions, other peoples' ambitions, other people themselves
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(both individually and collectively), ideals, beliefs, nature, the world,
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the universe, the atoms that make it all up... it goes on.
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sunsets hypnotize me. a beautiful landscape or scene captivates me,
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especially if it has the smell of fresh, un-building-or-exhaust-perverted
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air to it. i love the fall air smell and feeling right now. it makes me
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want to run away from every person in the world, to my own spot in some
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gorgeous woods, and just...expire there, slowly taking in the splendor of
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my surroundings as i descend into a peaceful reverie of death.
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needless to say; i won't. life's not quite that kind.
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never has it been easy for me to appreciate this fact much, but...i live
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for the little things. i don't mean the little hugs or kisses kinds of
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things, or the "good things come in small packages" banal bullshit. i
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mean, nintendo. guitar. masturbation. email. anything that will kill the
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time in the day with the least pain and do its best to keep my mind off
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of the gnawing and caustic sense of utter sequestration from the rest of
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the race that i feel like i have imposed on me. i think i've been living
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my whole life on the subconscious tenet that i would just live for
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whatever pleasure i could wring out of life until i can get no more, and
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then just kill myself. is that not fucking PATHETIC? the rest of the
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known world just sucks it up and moves on when they feel like something's
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bothering them, but not me -- oh, no! i just shut right down and wait to
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off myself.
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i honestly would feel compelled to kick myself if i didn't feel like
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that's all i HAVE been doing all these years...
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i don't know if i'll be another suicide statistic or not. i really don't.
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i refuse to make my mind up about something like that until i really feel
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compelled to decide. it's not an easy decision... "to be, or not to be?"
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maybe it's just the constraint that bothers me. i read an article in
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which the author said that he tried promiscuity to commit suicide; hoping
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that he'd get AIDS. suddenly, after the 17th time or so, he realized with
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horror that he could also be infecting his new partners if he'd actually
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succeeded in the contraction. he stopped, and it turned out that he was
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clean. now, that kind of thing makes no sense to me. i mean, it does and
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i've considered it, but i don't like the idea of that kind of time limit.
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i also remember a FUCK article about how much the author hated
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suicidalism and depressive people talking about killing themselves with
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nonchalance or even enthusiasm. well, although i don't think i'm quite
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laughing this off anyway, i'm making no promises that i'm going to do it
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any more than not. is that a good sign? i can't tell anymore.
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"can't tell." i can't tell anything anymore. can anyone tell me; are
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there REALLY people who enjoy living? like, people who look FORWARD to
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the thought of living; to the future? or is it all faked and a sham, and
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i'm a black sheep in a black flock, after all?
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i don't know. thanks for listening, my room got a little too hot and the
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air just a bit too thin. i think i'll return to it now; i've got a fine
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sunday to kill from inside it. perhaps some day i'll air the place out; i
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just haven't figured out how. in the meantime, you know where you can't
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find me.
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-agrajag
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http://www.geocities.com/SunsetStrip/Club/1610/Dep.html
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= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author. =
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