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~*~ the here and now. ~*~ the done and gone. ~*~ who am i? ~*~ find more like me ~*~
say something to me. ~*~ what they've said about me. ~*~ feel left out? ~*~ get pretty. ~*~

mulling over the future and the past, of the blank page.
2005-10-27, 1:54 a.m.

current mood: inadequate.

current song: you don't care about us by placebo

if it's a bad day
you try to suffocate
another memory
scarred
if it's a bad case
then you accelerate
you're in the getaway car

you don't care about us

it's a bad case
you're on the rampage
another memory
scarred
you're at the wrong place
you're on the back page
you're in the getaway car

you don't care about us

it's your age
it's my rage

you're too complicated
we should separate it
you're just confiscating
you're exasperating
this degeneration
mental masturbation
think i'll leave it all behind
save this bleeding heart of mine

it's a matter of trust
because you don't care about us

it's your age
it's my rage

i've been a bad girl. i've been unfaithful to you, my dairy. i've been writing in notebooks and napkins, the backs of envelopes and placemats. i've been at the walls in the shower with a china marker, and i've been sratching in the dirt. there's nothing like the sound of the spine on a brand new notebook cracking open as you bend it back, and nothing like the feel of pen on paper. a new notebook, a fresh page, a blank slate.

a blank page says nothing - nothing to distract, nothing to bother. it asks nothing, only invites the scratch of lines that become words and phrases and doodles and drawings. it says nothing about the lines stolen from great authors of time passed, and nothing about misshapen doodles. it never complains of coffee stains and cigarette ashes. it neither hates, nor helps; nither likes, nor critiques. it is nothing save for what the artist makes it become. it is a new chance. it is a burying ground for old thoughts. it can become a work of art or a piece of scrap. it can be burned in effigy, or filed away forever. i love the blank page, and the empty notebook not because of what it is, but what it can become. and it always becomes what i make it - made in the image of my heart and soul, my smiles and my tears. it never lies unless i lie to it, and it never leaves unless i lose it. it is a chance for me to see where i've been, and what i've become. and it is a way for me to remember how i felt at the time when my pen hit the page.

i'm sure that when i die there will be people wading through page upon page of babble that fell out of my mind and into my pen. and i'm quite sure that it will mostly be thrown away, save the few things that people actually like. they'll speak of me as the must have spoken of emily dickenson; telling tales of the girl who left more words than there are in the english language behind and nothing else. i'm sure that they'll scoff and use it to wipe their asses. and i'm sure that none of it will be remembered after that. even this, my internet ramblings will be lost after a certain amount of time, deleted to make way for the new, the young. it will expire as all things do. and my memory will carry from this generation of my family to the next, and will also likely dissapear.

i don't want this. i want to go down in fucking flames. i want my name etched into the annals of history. i want my name to be mentioned in history books and biographies. i want cities and streets in my honor. but i have done nothing noteworthy as of yet, and the likliness of me doing so is slim, at best.

add that to the fact that i'm going to die in another 30 years or so. fuck that getting old shit.

~*~ immediate yesterday. ~*~ divination. ~*~

~*~ entries from 2002 ~*~ entries from 2003 ~*~ entries from 2004 ~*~ entries from 2005 ~*~ entries from 2006 ~*~ entries from 2007 ~*~ entries from 2008 ~*~ entries from 2009 ~*~


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