perpetual motion distortion
and they say write and it will flow. and i tell them that’s utter bullshit. there are those that just, write and there are those that really writes. there are those that write of love and adoration, and those than pen about life and tribulations. i can only stare at the blinking cursor on the screen, in this darkened room and think about unhappy thoughts. and then, only then, i can write.
they say i should not write about lust and adoration. about lost and pain. and dwell in unhappily ever after. but i like unhappily ever after. it is after all, reality. and unfortunately, all that could bring a sad smile to my face are writing about love, lust, lost and pain. of dwelling in the past, in the what could have beens and also, of course writing about my pretties, my darling muses. the ones that holds a piece, each, of my heart. and when they come along and place their respective piece back in it’s slot, and i will be like lazarus, revived… until the time when they leave, again, and take the piece with them.
what i want and need, is not mine and i can never have them all. what i have, i might not have actually needed but chased in haste. and it is within this perpetual motion distortion, this mixed down messed up life, i release myself to fly against the storm. in between here and there, now and then… in that little corner of that little imaginary world, through the many many cracks of my heart… lives the poetwriterphotographer in his tiny dank dungeon room. it is there, in that little place in the far corner of my mind, that the skies are always gloomy and she weeps, perpetually raining…
-hooverphonic: you love me to death-
.monokhromatic. 
i read of a fellow masochist and laugh, silently, to myself.
loving and mourning always felt the same to me in that intensity of passion and emotion, so what is one without another, since they complement each other so damn nicely?
lust and love and like and grief… life would be a less colourful experience without one of all of those.
pain drives me too, and it is only when i’m well and truly aching that i feel most alive – so don’t let anyone tell you otherwise – you are that wonderfully sensitive emotionally attuned pedobear of mine, just because you understand the aching of the human heart is what life is all about.
laugh? i guess it’s one of acknowledgement and understanding, not ridicule? *laughs* yes yes, i understand what you mean, i was just messing around, as usual…
most people find tragedy strangely comforting. a reaffirmation that they’re not suffering alone and there are people just like them, i guess. and in esssence, i guess you and me are very much the same. we need.. nay, crave that ache, that pain. it’s like our tattoos and piercings, it hurts but we always, strangely, go back for more.
thus true, without that, it would be a less colorful and also a less interesting read don’t you think? or else all those post secret books won’t be such a big hit, lol. damn the publishers for stealing my idea! if i had just put it into motion earlier. oh well…