The Enemy of the Good (eideteker) wrote,
The Enemy of the Good

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The man in the iron butterfly

I've always got this question
that you can never answer
everytime you mention
I'm such a great romancer

Your eyes are rhythm
your heart is a song
I'm deafened by the bars you hum
yet you want me to sing along


fuck songwriting


so frustrated with wanting to do something.

I'm pissed I left the song I was working on at work. I'm pissed I can never get much more than a verse before I lose the tune. I'm pissed it sounds mass-produced and empty.

Goldeneye just got really hard. Maybe I am not concentrating enough. Maybe I'm concentrating too much.

Maybe I should just put any 47,000 words together and call it a book. I have no clue what I want to be. I say "writer" because that's what people tell me. I no longer want to be a physicist or a psychologist, even though people told me I should be those, too, because I have tried it and got bored. I don't want to be anything. I don't want to do anything for a living. I just want to live.


And it feels like I'm feeling, but I'm really just dispassionately pressing plastic buttons. Maybe I am typing a story. Maybe I am just mashing the keyboard with chimpanzitic frenzied enthusiam.

Maybe I am just listing things to kill time. To kill pain. To kill myself.

Time needs to move faster so I can see how my life ends. I'm not concerned with actually being happy; I just want to know if I will live a happy life. It's like MASH (mansion apartment shack house); who will I marry, where will I live, and how many kids will we have? What kind of beautiful automobile will I drive? Oh, really? That's nice. Ok, I'm done. I don't really need to live my life. I need to watch a speeded up sim of what it will probably look like.

I've always been fascinated with the future, because I know I could see it if only I could look backwards.

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