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Dec. 14th, 2008 | 11:53 pm
location: in bedie
mood: thankfulthankful
music: Smashing Pumpkins - Ava Adore

I have grown accustomed to being in such a state of despair that it frightens me when happiness sets down its bags and stays for awhile. I suppose it is the best for everyone as I put them through enough as it is. I owe my boyfriend a solid gold chair for what he endures and I leak with affection for the man.

I have so many things to say and not enough energy to say them.
I think this is what being happy is, is it this simple?

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ah its incorrect isn't it?

Oct. 28th, 2008 | 11:56 pm
location: in beddie
mood: calmcalm

As I let my eyes follow the lines that I created in my previous entry, my lips turn into a soft frown. I surprise myself sometimes with my cynicism, where my thoughts are fuelled by my emotions. As of now, I feel as though I already disagree with my previous entry’s contention. It is extremely aggravating to know that how I feel about things is altered as my moods change. Can anything be constant for fuck sakes? I am inconsistent in nearly all possible senses. ‘Flaky’ is a fitting adjective I suppose. This is a self-indulgent attempt to substantiate my words, the ideas that shift as fast as rotating doors in corporate buildings. I am thinking that even as I let these words fall into place, that I will only contradict them in a few hours, or a few weeks, whatever the progression of time.

Belief is tedious when one attempt to stay constant and they fail horribly. I wish I had a bible that I could follow, that reflected the concrete notions that I hold and setting everything else in stone, as to give me structure or in some way direction. Yet I cannot stick to that notion as I don’t think life should be lived with a set book of guidelines, leaving every possible response to be based purely subjectivity. I shudder at the thought, but also find relief in knowing that in subjectivity there is variation of events and responses that would indeed dictate how life is experienced.

I will attempt to update this as often as possible, despite the fact that I have minimal to no audience reading this (to which I am glad as my musings are ill-formed and based too much on emotional drive). I feel as though I have not one ounce of objectivity left in my body. When does non-fiction convert to epic tales of woe and desire? I leave my mind to mould my experiences into soft consumable shapes of which could possibly harm me if left to figuratively fester in the recesses of my cranium. Is it illogical of me to create my own safety blanket to save me from the boogey man? Everything in a way seems imaginary; it all depends on how much drive I give it.

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thankyou durden

Oct. 20th, 2008 | 12:14 am
location: In between my headphones
mood: cynicalcynical
music: Evanescence - Lose Control

It is often confronting. Confronting. Perhaps too strong of a word for this. Option B. surprising. That will do for its purpose. It is often surprising to what extent an individual takes interest in themselves. In their concerns. In their mind; what is not turning out how they originally imagined. Of what matters most in the end. I will inform you as a reader that this is not an attempt to segregate myself from a perfectly natural and instinctive habit to enjoy from time to time. It is merely a congregation of thoughts that are only of my own truth. It is a challenge to believe the worth of everything thought.

 There must be an instance, a brief stretch of moment, a minute where a person is released from the hold of these notions, the weak, self-indulgent thoughts that run the way a person functions; conducting their actions as though they were puppets and their strings were laced with their own pseudo-self-worth. Self-improvement is masturbation. I watch these people from a distance, as I sit on a bus and eavesdrop on a conversation while I busy my fingers with a task. Their angry tones and distorted tales. From a distance I wonder if it mattered how close I was affected the meaning of what they were saying. I do not care for these people. I find it hard to care for anyone I don’t give the time of day. If I was pressing my cheek against theirs in order to hear the disembodied voice on the other side, would I feel any more care?

Throw it all away, the meaning, the complications and what is left? Should there be sense, folded and ironed neatly into a comforting square of softness? Or if they did not possess sense a blank spot where something should go but was tossed out like a Christmas present puppy still tied in its frilled red bow, catching on its paws from scratching. Now left to sit inside a cement box until another family thinks beyond themselves. When does the void become noticeable to onlookers? When a hole dissolves through the skin of your stomach, letting light through the other side?  On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero.  

I let my mind stray in to fields of noxious weeds and unholy fumes. And I breathe in. A single, drawing breath and I am left with nothing. There is nothing. Ultimately, perhaps, there really is nothing. When does minimalism become a global threat? Those fleeting moments where everything in your head fades away are not moments of peace where obstacles seem like mere spots on a cancer patient missing chunks of flesh. Only moments of truth that is misinterpreted as serenity after a ferocious squall. I want to float away into the silence of the universe and lose myself in a torrent of stars. Just for a few moments. To remind me that nothing means anything; a pacifying eventuality.

And I will return with twisted lips of joy, knowing that I will continue to ignore the truth and let the water rise above my head. And drown in the feelings that conduct my limbs as I continue to beam because existence is beautiful in its disarray, intoxicating in its complexity. Ebbing emotions that rise and bubble over its partition will be the end and the beginning of us all. Ground zero. And I will cherish the moment, each moment, when it all falls down. In the morning rays of a new sun where everything seems so faultless I will not question its purity. It is my own reality after all. It’s my truth in spite of everything.

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somewhere deep inside of these bones

Oct. 19th, 2008 | 12:38 pm
mood: calmcalm
music: tim burton

Philius my lovely, your face cupped within my frail hands tonight. You are heavenly in your beauty as the days fritter away. You have not been around for quite some time now. Have I been forgotten by you due to emotional neglect? I didn’t mean to leave you for so long. Maybe it was you that left me; the notion has been obscured from the subjectivity of my memories. I wonder what you face holds, if your forehead shows signs of worry or if you hair has grown past your shoulders. Have you been caring for her the way I did? She is only young after all and has not learnt of the world like we have. Bring her back to me please.


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philius, something's terribly astray

Oct. 15th, 2008 | 11:41 am
location: within my bed
mood: disappointeddisappointed
music: fiona apple - sally's song

Five months. That is how long I have dismissed this profile, evading the onset guilt that plagues me
when I think of how little I have written since. Nothing at all; disregarding all of the assessments and essays for university & tafe, I have written nothing for me.

No, it's not what you think. I am not out of ideas. Out of motivation is a closer explanation to my absence; to my lack of creating anything. My sketchbooks are scarce; images are incomplete or poorly executed. Can I accuse life for getting in the way of creating?  Or perhaps it has been due to this dwindling yet ever present illness circulating within my system.  But no, I cannot point my extraordinary finger at that, not directly.

Open scene to a young couple. Pan in. Shot of woman’s face.

“Things have changed.”

Apply this cliché line and imagery to close to every aspect of my existence. I feel as though I have been altered (physically attempting such a process also). It is bound to change, elements within a person though when quite sudden it can seem a daunting task to believe the alterations will work.

I have been ill; I am tired of admitting it and explaining how it affects me. My teachers have allowed me to leave, for the last month of the year to complete my work. I know how this will turn out. I will be in bed for weeks only getting up for more water and coffee. This better help me get better. Or I look forward to fainting at work as customers pile up and continue to ask for synthetic food.

The summer is approaching hastily as the nights are freezing but the days produce droplets of sweat. Four months break in between semesters and only casual work to keep me occupied.  Projects will be created. Four months wasted will feel like such a waste.

I will not make unrealistic promises to this but it will become active again with well constructed sentences and unfamiliar musing. Life must not get in the way from now. It is not an excuse, or it shouldn’t be anymore. Time is wasting away, I mustn’t waste what time I am given.

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without the faith

May. 24th, 2008 | 11:19 pm
mood: busy
music: Smashing Pumpkins - Ava Adore

a wonder plagues her
her eyes, pacific blue, shine with
dull curiosity.
an internal dawn.
her supple skin pulsates
as though her blood
danced beneath her skin.
she was beautiful, her lips
tasted so.
never has anyone
touched, the morning star.
O, how his hands yearned
to taint her flesh.
son of dawn, held
her in his arms before
the day of the fallen, this is
what angels must do
to dispose of
their sordid sins

an attempt to feel with words again.

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its something like love

Apr. 4th, 2008 | 10:03 pm
mood: draineddrained

in between the scraped ridges of
her twisted spine
strawberry syrup trickles down
her dainty nape

the tale of her eyes
sewn with liquorice rope
squelching as they attempt to pry

shut your eyes baby.
it will tear you apart.

sugar coated lips of neon pink
side to side
slice her pallor
split her beaut-ful mouth
make her laugh
my knees weaken
as i hear her weep

I take them as my own.

lungs powdered white
cocaine dusted treat
spit down her throat
rock candy shards
shoved down her orifice

its too late.

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(no subject)

Jan. 31st, 2008 | 11:20 pm
location: queenscliff
mood: coldcold

once upon a time
some time after dark had
stumbled and fallen
his knees painted with
crusted blood
and thorns

there was another little boy
similar in age, without the regret
delicate fingers that
tampered with electrical
sweet battery acid
melon flavoured chewing gum
back to the point.

upon a rock he sat
the octopuses muttered in unison
a boy in the middle of
an ocean
was indeed, a strange
sight to see

if one only had eyes

back to the point.
cup of tea perched in his small
occupied hands
entangled in violent purple
seaweed skeletons
dancing to arabian beats
whispered by baby pharaohs

"I weep for the future"
they cooed in jaded tones

back to the point.
the tea conversed freely
sulking for the sun
the seabed its dying day

Dee & Dum:

The sun was shining on the sea,
shining with all his might,
he did his very best to make
the billows full and bright.
And this was odd,
because it was the

middle of the night.

twinkling from above, a star
crept carefully
trying not to tread
on the nightly corpse

"good evening, little sir of the shadows", the star

"what do you want, tiny star?"
"I request that you wish upon
me; not around me, not behind
me, but upon me"
both blinked curiously
"why would i do that?
when stars are wished upon
they land dead"

the octopuses smirked at the
skeleton seaweed as this
conversation ensued.
"an infantile lie, i assure you
little one. take my hand and
wish without regret"

each extended their hands
the moon gasped in
utter surprise
the lighthouse falling over from
either complete shock or
far too many bottles of

fingers almost grazing one another
"i wish..." the young
boy declared.
"i wish for another
cup of tea
two sugars, please
and a kiss"
the star chuckled
back to the point.

without warning
the star gave an
almighty shove
and the boy splashed
into the black waves

already dead
before he hit the water

"fool! i am but a distant
plane, you dare wish upon
my steely wings"

a poor ending
the tea cup shattered upon
collision, if one was wondering
the sugar spilled into
octopus eyes

one should never
trust the stars
and mischievous airplanes

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Jan. 9th, 2008 | 12:19 pm
location: hotel room
mood: busy

Knots of ash gold hair tangled in between

her delicate fingers

stuck more or less,

in a curtain that shrouds her body.

her tongue the colour of glass berries

bitter to taste

sweet nearly, the medication tingling

anaesthesis, clouding her morals


Murmuring broke out into the darkened room I shared; I failed to notice that it was me that was trying to form words. I can only question what I said

I now cannot trust sleep to hold clandestine notions
that lurk within.


Bottles of paint and glue shattered within her hand’s presence.

Smudged with dirty fingers, the sugary sweetness of hers was left in good condition.

the cough syrup kept

the cough away

kept her chest from

spluttering and




I crossed her lips with black lines of pungent ink; I hid it to mask her expression.

The marker was to blame, I didn’t want to erase it.

I didn’t throw away the photograph, though asked.



 def: A word carried over into Medieval literature from the Latin for ‘evil doings’ and applied to misfortunes and calamities of all kinds for which no immediate casual explanation might be given.


This is not enough


the only way to describe it is that I fear the notion of fear, quite a contradiction, yet it makes enough sense as it does nonsense.

what I desire

is what I fear

what I fear

is fear

what I succumb to

is fear


in conclusion,

I am fear’s little bitch

And in some odd, one could say sadistic, way

I think I like it.


P.S. does not mean I want leather straps for my birthday.

Not entirely at least.


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tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies

Dec. 10th, 2007 | 12:48 am
mood: accomplished

i wanted you to drink me.
my label told you so.
and you did it without a thought
and I killed you on the inside
with the smile of a thousand
                                    "A cup of
                                    tea would be
                                    fitting", you say.
                                    "Fuck you", would
                                    sit better on your
                                    "Would you care
                                     for a crumpet,
                                     young lady of mine?"
                                     "Just no?", his voice
"No sir"

Your innards smell better than your
that you made me lick off.

"I don't suppose you heard me gag, did you?"
my dress ruffles whisper
they are singing to me
"if only madness was your way out"

where were you last night
on your bed
what did you do
i tried to breath
but your smoke replaced
my life source
                                     "Am I allowed to hate you, sir"
                                     "I don't see why not"
You could not see any way
                                      with the shards of glass i sprinkled
                                      like fairy dust 
                                      into your eyes

"I don't love you anymore"
I tasted the white dusk falling from the table.

"Don't be ludicrous,
                                 I have
                                           never loved
                                 at all"

aren't you glad you drank me, sir.

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