Ghosts

When I listen to happy hardcore I am reminded of you. When I listen to Zeromancer, another ghost of lover’s past comes to greet me, remind me of my transgressions then when Rush comes to the party I’m left questioning why I didn’t leave you sooner. Metallic brings me a hollow empty disappointed feeling, why did I ever care enough about you to think that I was special, that you were a decent human being.

And then it comes to me in a screamo cover of Eminem’s “Love the Way You Lie”. It’s because I loved all you despite all of the lies we lived in, loved in. Loving me is extremely difficult, it’s not a walk in the park, there is nothing idyllic about it.

It’s manic, full of passion, feeling, anger, fire. There’s nothing in the middle, it’s either all in or out. It’s something that I’ve figured out about myself, that I really do lack a middle ground. I am the hard guitar riff from a three chord punk song. I am that metal song that is so complicated musically, that gets lost in it and it’s sequences that people call it pretentious. Nobody can really agree what makes it more awesome than pretentious but they all agree it is something neat. Something special.

I am hard to love. It’s true.

I’m going to marry the dark.

À bein tôt!

Zed

 

Getting there

So as I sit here, casually attempting to study for a midterm I have tomorrow, I have come to a conclusion. I want to write. That’s all I ever want to do, write, expel words, get lost in a moment of conversing with someone that’s entirely one way.

When I write for assignments, it takes forever to get started. The words refuse to come and instead it’s the blank page waiting. I don’t know for what, since I’m the one that the words come from and if I don’t know what I’m waiting for, what I’m expecting, then the page is no expectation. Maybe something profound, amazing, stellar, something that’s amazing.

So when it is not amazing, stellar but just a start I tend to become rather judgemental. I think, edit away at it to make it sound more polished instead of hashing out the skeleton of what I want it to be and how I want to arrive at that conclusion. Instead it becomes one amazing sentence, a partially developed thesis and then more blank page waiting.

It is as if I am pulling teeth. My own teeth.

It is not fun at all and being not fun at all dissuades me from writing.

I know that I can write. And that it is good, that if it is not good enough for me in that moment then I can always edit more to make it good. My idea of good is very different from other people’s idea of good. I hold my writing to a higher standard because of how badly I fail to communicate with people verbally.

Since I communicate not as well as I liked to verbally, it is essential that I be as clear and send the message that I want to in my writing. Which appears to be a larger problem of why I don’t write as much as I would like to anymore.

The remedy to this, I do believe, is to write small amounts everyday. Then it becomes more useful, more natural. There’s less of an importance placed on it. It does not become this monstrous mountain to climb and overcome.

Well. That’s what I hope anyways.

À bientôt!