disembodiedillusion

its as if i knew. no wait. i must have known! no wait. its as if i knew. i told him this movie wasnt a good idea. that it made me cry. but he is a lover of the moives, not the philosophy beneath them. i think about the guy that was so nearly there, the guy i could actually tell what i feel (i just deleted the word how) when someone says something you've thought of before but was always too afraid to say out loud. he said that we never say we're human when we do somethiing heroic like when one rescues a human from a burning building, we use the term when when we are guilty or when we feel like we've done something wrong. the trut

so... i only submit a journal when I feel i have something intelligent, witty, profound and deeply artistic to say. or when i'm completely inebriated, but not by my pride. hah! i like my brain. but do i appreciate it? why is it always as if the choice of my words shall define the meaning of my thoughts? there i was, staring at my last journal, trying to gain the courage to press "new entry" as if, as always, someone, somewhere, is judging me, loving me, hating me or being completely indifferent to my words, my feelings, my soul and my scars. hah! haven't changed much, have you, darling? we saw tonight. i stare into his eyes, telling

it's been so long since i posted here, that im not even sure how to start. it's coming. steady and true. and i'm scared shitless. trying to convince myself to hold on just a but more. a tiny bit more. is this the realization that my attempts of salvage are merely to mask my denied need to stall? stall stall out of fear (what else) always needing to rationalize my choice like the coward i am. ha! at least this is a sign of some progress everytime the thought crossed my mind, i didnt dwell on it. now im writing it. publishing it. i've stamped the seal of acception, so now i can't deny it's existence with pseudo-romantic excuses