This is “The Man Who.” An abbreviation.
There are many stories about men who. Men who know too much, too little, just enough up to a point where they then wind up knowing too little or too much. Men who are there, not there. The men who come to town, leave it, say goodbye to it with a kiss at the train station. And surely there are the men who will be things: kings, presidents, husbands, heroes, losers, strangers, vacationers, etc. The men who shoot and hunt things. There is a man who laughs, but is there a man who cries? There are stories of men who sell things, create things, destroy things, love things, etc. There are all the men who are days of the week. There is the man who came to dinner. The man who saved everything, the man who lost everything, the man who had nothing to lose. From the hills come the stories of men who ride, men who survive. Watch out for the man who fell. From where? From everywhere. Everywhere there are men who have done so much or too little or barely enough to be recognized in the pantheon of men who. Men who this. Men who that. Men who have all the time in the world or not enough of it. They all have their stories. And you. Of the men who you loved there is the man who never lied and the man who never returned.
sorrow by name, and sorrow by nature/working for joy on overtime
stuck on a line of misadventure/i fear no crime
I was hoping this year would be different, since the lead up wasn’t so bad, but no… Still dreading what’s going to come and keeping alive the little soiled flame in my heart which fuels the flawed machinery.
I’m turning 21 (jesus christ) in two and a half hours (oh my god). Birthdays are weird.
My thought is me: that’s why I can’t stop. I exist because I think … and I can’t stop myself from thinking.
Only recently have I been able to take a step back and objectively assess just how paranoid I’ve become, but am I entirely wrong to be so afraid? All I can think about in public is how I could easily be tracked via various security cameras, eyewitness accounts, transport tickets (since I rarely purchase anything else). I’ve been heavily considering implementing the use of so-called facial recognition software defying makeup in the now despite no public statements alerting the populace to the introduction of such technology, but if your government wants to keep such a close eye on you, would they really want to tip you off about it beforehand? A little part of me tells me I’m being ridiculous, but that’s simply being unheard over the hollering of my admittedly more erratic and scared side. Who the fuck would want to track me anyway? What have I done? Well, who knows. Religious delusion rears its ugly old head again and maybe I’m still being punished for some unknown, un-atoneable sin. Even if it’s not that, possibility is endless, and that always fucks me up. I hate talking about it to people because while mired in my own point of view, I can see how batshit I come off to anyone else. And when that is realized by lack of acknowledgement, completely, it simply serves as the cement to my feet.
Though then I wonder, is the willingness to post about this on the internet indicative that I don’t buy into my own delusions seriously enough? I feel insane going over and over it in my own mind alone. I just need to get it out of my head.
Aku no Hana (The Flowers of Evil) Classroom scene.
I think this is one of the best scenes in anything I’ve ever laid my eyes on and I’m totally gutted at the overwhelming possibility that there won’t be a second season. Of course, having the buildup of the previous 6 episodes makes it so much better to watch, but even as is I think it’s amazing. If you need something to fill time, I push this as candidate.
"…you hear a lot about those people who, despite their illnesses, climb Mount Everest or something but I think those who are just as worthy, or even more of our admiration are the everyday people who manage to continue living their life as they always have been."
Something my neurologist said to me at the ending of our meet, which I think contributed to my brink-of-tears on the way home from the hospital. That and being fed up with being ill, but I’ll be in it for the long haul unfortunately. There are three instances where I absolutely must be leaving my house in the next six weeks - for the yearly MRI scan, a meeting with my GP, and another meeting with the neurologist to go over the scan and for another prescription. I’m getting tired thinking about it.
A long time ago a friend of mine used to comfort me with the words, “You and I are not for this time.” Though I know this has little basis in… anything, really, it’s something that has stuck with me and continues to reappear whenever needed. The false hope or delusion that I really have come too early or late into existence gives the feeling like; as a child, a parent has come to check under the bed for the boogeymonster then gives the all clear. The relief might be temporary but for that time, it works, and it’s all that matters.
somebody-else said: It’s for the theatre.
Quiet you top listed offender
I will never understand the sort of people who knock over a drink and watch it spill instead of picking it up.
Most people don’t grow up. Most people age. They find parking spaces, honor their credit cards, get married, have children, and call that maturity. What that is, is aging.
Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is.
It’s been a while, but this is a fab way to get acquainted again with an old friend.
Despite one of my largest fears being MS leaving me nothing but a consciousness trapped within a paralyzed flesh cage, I’m still not using my body as much as I can while I still am definitely able. Of course I have the off days where the thought (and even act) of leaving my bed is too painful to bear, but on the days I’m free of that and anything else, still I choose to confine myself in my room, minus the odd walk around the surroundings. It’s been a mental battle for a long time, one could draw conclusions to laziness from my actions but on the inside somewhere I still hold onto the illogical, possibly steeped in OCD intruding thought/s that I should save all my movement for a time it matters because just maybe if I employ the use of these strands of sinew too often and too carelessly they’ll wear down and snap a lot more prematurely than they could have. I had someone tell me recently I shouldn’t see my condition as indicative of a death sentence, and as true as it may be, I don’t want to hear that shit. Just because I mightn’t explicitly die through direct correlation with disease doesn’t mean it’s not shaping up the rest of my time to be possibly worse than death. Big assumptions to make, but for having the first attack so unnaturally early in life and the constant state of confusion the lesions on my brain seem to be entrapped in between all their waxing and waning just enough to keep my doctors confused, as a psychologist once wrote on my referral sheet; prognosis is poor.
The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.