Let me question that feeling
That kind that puts aside your reasoning
I've made the mistake once, twice
Too many, many times
I've learnt, I've learnt
The hard way, I got burnt
Cause I'm just a young fella
I shoulda known betta
No matter what they say,
"Jump upon that impulse"
Don't, it'll ruin your day
There's no need to arouse
That feeling, again
Avoid needless pain
But I work against myself
I crave my personal hell
Won't you help me please
Chords:
I need a few more layers
Cause I get too cold too quick
Too slow to think
It's too hard too much
For me to take
I need a few more layers
Just to be sure
That I won't fall
I won't fall
Again
Hey I'm hurt
Have you heard?
But you don't care
Cause when I feel you're not there
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
"Well," he thought, as he preened over his computer, "Here I am again. Staring at a blank screen, the cursor flashing on and off, wondering what to do, how do I do this shit, how do I get words on the screen, enough words that I can give my publisher in exchange for money."
Indeed, he has spent many hours pondering. He has spent too many hours in fact, that he has forgotten one vital thing: nourishment. There he sat... Barely sitting... His skeleton very glaring indeed. He hadn't an ounce of fat, he never ate for a long time now... He just... sat. He hadn't a clue as to what night and day looked like anymore, and appearance besides, he was certaintly and surely, losing the concept that he was a human.
He had begun to think of himself as another enitity altogether. One with a singular purpose, one with different needs, and wants, but like I said, he had barely begun to identify this change in himself. Yet, he could feel an inkling. I know. I know so much because we touched. And because we touched, I know.
I sat there, not knowing what to do. He seemed to have captured me somehow. He seemed to had an aura, that, as I stared on, seemed to become more and more visible. It was a certain greenish glow, like that of stereotyped aliens depicted in mainstream films. I was enraptured by it. I was past the point of fear, it seemed to put me at ease very quickly. And then, I blinked.
And there he was. And he was typing. I looked at his fingers. They moved fast. A blur, a whirl. I saw the screen move as words filled up the once-empty spaces. I saw chapters, I saw long dialogues, I saw headings, I saw large words and small words, I saw simple ideas, and layman terms.
He was writing. He sat there, he lower body very still and his fingers danced, his hands swayed. Suddenly, he stopped. I realised then that I had stared at him for a very long time too. I could feel the grime and sweat on my body, and my plastered hair on my forehead. He turned his head to my direction and looked at me. Our eyes met. He was panting, he, too, was sweating profusely. He didn't smile, his eyes were gentle and at ease. He was done, and he knew he had no more part over here.
So he exploded.
Bits and chunks and him flew around, some were twirling, as if doing a final pirrouette before descending to the ground like a gentle feather, some were catapulted some distance away, through the windows, into the skies, never to be seen again.
I wiped my eyes, enough to see the screen. It was untouched and clean, ready to be read.
And read, I did. And page after page, dialogue after dialogue. I consumed the story, I unravelled the mysteries, and lifted up the layers, and lived the characters' lives. I too, then, was reduced to bones already. And when I read the last page, when I reached the last word, I read the last passage again. Again, and again, and again.
And then, I was done.
So I, too, exploded.
Indeed, he has spent many hours pondering. He has spent too many hours in fact, that he has forgotten one vital thing: nourishment. There he sat... Barely sitting... His skeleton very glaring indeed. He hadn't an ounce of fat, he never ate for a long time now... He just... sat. He hadn't a clue as to what night and day looked like anymore, and appearance besides, he was certaintly and surely, losing the concept that he was a human.
He had begun to think of himself as another enitity altogether. One with a singular purpose, one with different needs, and wants, but like I said, he had barely begun to identify this change in himself. Yet, he could feel an inkling. I know. I know so much because we touched. And because we touched, I know.
I sat there, not knowing what to do. He seemed to have captured me somehow. He seemed to had an aura, that, as I stared on, seemed to become more and more visible. It was a certain greenish glow, like that of stereotyped aliens depicted in mainstream films. I was enraptured by it. I was past the point of fear, it seemed to put me at ease very quickly. And then, I blinked.
And there he was. And he was typing. I looked at his fingers. They moved fast. A blur, a whirl. I saw the screen move as words filled up the once-empty spaces. I saw chapters, I saw long dialogues, I saw headings, I saw large words and small words, I saw simple ideas, and layman terms.
He was writing. He sat there, he lower body very still and his fingers danced, his hands swayed. Suddenly, he stopped. I realised then that I had stared at him for a very long time too. I could feel the grime and sweat on my body, and my plastered hair on my forehead. He turned his head to my direction and looked at me. Our eyes met. He was panting, he, too, was sweating profusely. He didn't smile, his eyes were gentle and at ease. He was done, and he knew he had no more part over here.
So he exploded.
Bits and chunks and him flew around, some were twirling, as if doing a final pirrouette before descending to the ground like a gentle feather, some were catapulted some distance away, through the windows, into the skies, never to be seen again.
I wiped my eyes, enough to see the screen. It was untouched and clean, ready to be read.
And read, I did. And page after page, dialogue after dialogue. I consumed the story, I unravelled the mysteries, and lifted up the layers, and lived the characters' lives. I too, then, was reduced to bones already. And when I read the last page, when I reached the last word, I read the last passage again. Again, and again, and again.
And then, I was done.
So I, too, exploded.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Where in this world, can I find a piece of my mind?
Cause I've overthought it, and I'm scattered over, convincing myself it's fine.
I'm really scared, I'm losing a part of me, that was a part of me for a long, long time.
Can't really see, ahead on this road, judging by what I was told, it's hard to find
A way to live this life, the way i want it
Stuck in this place with nowhere to go
Do you know, I'm losing my soul
Stop beating me up man, I'm begging
Start treating me right now, I'm saying
All I want is just peace and direction
That's all I want
Is it so hard to give
Cause I've overthought it, and I'm scattered over, convincing myself it's fine.
I'm really scared, I'm losing a part of me, that was a part of me for a long, long time.
Can't really see, ahead on this road, judging by what I was told, it's hard to find
A way to live this life, the way i want it
Stuck in this place with nowhere to go
Do you know, I'm losing my soul
Stop beating me up man, I'm begging
Start treating me right now, I'm saying
All I want is just peace and direction
That's all I want
Is it so hard to give
There is a sickness that drives this place
It strikes me hard with great distaste
It's seen in wars between the human race
Times we'd show our darker face
Who knew we'd spend so much on hate?
Is there hope for us when we meet our fates?
Will we be saved? Is it too late?
Are we devices to destroy what we create?
For the core of us is the desire of fulfilment
The needs of ours felt first by us
Our conditions, nature, thoughts and beliefs
Are only for ourselves, and for no one else
It strikes me hard with great distaste
It's seen in wars between the human race
Times we'd show our darker face
Who knew we'd spend so much on hate?
Is there hope for us when we meet our fates?
Will we be saved? Is it too late?
Are we devices to destroy what we create?
For the core of us is the desire of fulfilment
The needs of ours felt first by us
Our conditions, nature, thoughts and beliefs
Are only for ourselves, and for no one else
Saturday, March 13, 2010
It's pointless to seek...
Cynisism is a defense. The way this world has since been shaped, it is a logical reaction. On the other spectrum, happiness is dangerous. It lifts you up high for a great big fall.
That's the way it is, that's the way it's gonna be.
That's the way it is, that's the way it's gonna be.
We are Bastards
"Bastard coated bastards with bastard fillings."
We are selfish. We are feeling creatures, and our needs are our foremost feelings. That is our structure, our condition, our nature. When we think, we think for ourselves first. Our first instinct is for us, for ourselves.
I see no other way. There is no other alternative. We are selfish.
We are selfish. We are feeling creatures, and our needs are our foremost feelings. That is our structure, our condition, our nature. When we think, we think for ourselves first. Our first instinct is for us, for ourselves.
I see no other way. There is no other alternative. We are selfish.
Monday, March 8, 2010
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