Why? Why was I supposed to be the anti-facebook?
What the hell was I supposed to represent?
And why am I an illiterate nigger, as you say, now that I’ve gotten a facebook?

Things change, and I want to ride the winds of change.
I’m experimenting with new things, I’m trying to reach out and connect.
I just thought that facebook might be a good way to start that.
I realized that no one’s going to dig me out of my pit of despair, so crying more about it won’t do shit.
Who knows. Maybe I’ll even meet some cool new people. Maybe I’ll find someone awesome.
Besides, who wants to stay in their own clique day in and day out. Especially one that will say you have a small penis for going to the University of Oklahoma, as you say.

That was really fun, I hope to explore for more penultimates some other time.
anyways, maybe I should keep a list of these questions that mark the end of a train of thought

penultimates:
how does one know reality?
what is meaningful?
do people have souls?

If I really do make finding such penultimates my hobby and my passion, I really should make a point of remembering these places where thought goes no further.

absolute value of wish didn’t make mistakes
absolute value of wish knew exactly what to do
absolute value of wish did exactly what I should

absolute value of wish could selectively take back what I said wrong
absolute value of wish could erase all my past mistakes
absolute value of wish was with you again

But wishes rarely come true, I’ve found. Why is the night sky so brilliantly illuminated by the moon, whose light makes darkness opaque and obscures any chance of seeing the stars that fall. Irony mark: a meteor shower is scheduled for tonight.

I wish I were sure of myself. But I’m not.
Maybe if I act like I’m sure of myself, things will get better?

As I was walking home, I noticed several trees carrying cherry blossoms.
I remembered that samurais often compared themselves to these fragile flowers because of their delicate nature. It’s easy to imagine how the samurai, who lived life on the razor sharp edge of the katana, might have felt a kinship to these beautiful, fleeting blossoms. And as I was thinking, I felt that such beauty must somehow be connected to its temporary nature. That perhaps the beautiful is temporary and the temporary is beautiful. And it made sense to me anyways. I mean, would such flowers be as beautiful if they were common instead of fleeting? Would dreams be as beautiful if they didn’t wear winged sandles?
And I realized that maybe that’s why we value love so dearly. Maybe that’s why love is so beautiful. Because love rides on the wing, because love ebbs and flows, waxes and wanes. If it didn’t, why would we sing such ballads, fleeting as well, to love?
And maybe that’s why our lives are beautiful as well. We’re temporary, and so are our worlds. And that’s why they’re beautiful.
And hate?
Well it too passes, so maybe there’s beauty in that.

I couldn’t sleep so I composed a haiku

I’m afraid to want
Because I might be let down
It’s kind of Buddhist

So want and be hurt
How else would you know? Know that
you’re freaking alive?

33333
3333333
3333;3

And yes, Eric. My bluug has reached terminal emoness.
Maybe that means it can only get less emo from here.

Hope, like a dead weight hanging in your chest.
Making a pendulum, making you a clock.
Time heals all and all heals with time
right?

So count the seconds.
Count those goddamned fucking seconds
Count them like you mean it
Count them

=bridge=

What am I doing? Why am I drivelling insanities and unreasons?
Can’t you see? Are you so blind? Are you all so blind?

This is a cry for help, this is my desperation.
I smile out of one face, laugh with another.
But with the third face, I cry for a brother, a mother, a lover
of my soul.
But of course, everyone’s too wrapped up with all of their things. And to be fair, quite a few people around me have tried to give their support.
But it’s half assed.

Maybe I should seek professional help; synthetic, remote, professional, yes. But maybe someone paid to heal will actually do that job. And god knows I’d give just about anything to be well/well-off again. Because altruism just doesn’t work. It’s an ideal, and only an ideal. Still, it’d be nice to solve my problems not wearing a latex glove but rather as a human, as a functioning part of society.

I’m reaching out; I really am. Someone else, help me catch my fall.
But maybe next time when someone asks me if I’m alright I shouldn’t just laugh and ask “Why wouldn’t I be?” Or smile and say “I was just joking, I’m really too schizophrenic for my own good.”
Still, there’s pride to worry about in real life. I guess that’s why I couldn’t cry even though I wanted to. Even though I felt like I should, even though I felt like it might be healing. Consciously I willed myself, but unconsciously I sneered at myself.

Sigh, I don’t know how to end this post. Depression is enveloping, like a miasmatic bubble that becomes your entire existence, your entire universe. I guess what I really want, put simply, is just to get better.