Don't Look Here

Something about big, legible text scribbled in a kind hand makes me feel like I'm serving bigger than myself

I saw this and thought of Paddington then cried

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Half an hour has passed.

I was going to finish that phrase off with --hard to come by-- but I was interrupted by a series of loud banging, stomping, and dragging sounds that I had to deal with, lol.

I wasn't even complaining about loud noises either. I was trying to write about how even in silence, the mind can clang with unfiltered ideas. But it seems to me that the act of recognizing the loud thoughts translated them into loud sounds because now my mind is silent.

shamelessly reposting something I wrote because I didn't know how communities work lmao ________________________________

I'm no longer Faln Head of Marketing. I'm now just simply unemployed, loveless, and friendless. Turns out the woman I was in love with ran off with 3 years' worth of classified documentation. She's apparently fled off the grid. I'm heart broken, but I'm now completely uprooted. I had to move back in with my brother in Jamrock. He's out looking for cigarettes and a fix, so the radiocomputer is free until he he gets back.

Faln was a job, but it was so much more. It was stability and warmth. It was simple status and sustenance.

The job was a great title, an identity that made me feel worthy. It made me feel so worthy, in fact, that I no longer strove for anything. I no longer hungered for something. I was not happy, not truly, I was domesticated like a cat, or, more rather, a dog. I was sated into this simple life that I knew was not right for me and my dreams. I think I loved how she seemed to hold my dreams within her. I need to forget her. Damn spies. It was only 6 months, but she's captured my mind like no one else. She was blonde when I met her, but she shirked off the length and the light for something short and brunette. She showed me that change was possible and beautiful.

No. I need to move past that. Forget the Oranje disco dancer. This is about me.

I feel this weighty fear and this starving need. They clash with such ferocity that I can hardly stand to look at either. My future lashes out in pain and hunger for birth. My past, glutton that she is, simply absorbs the scenery in a vague smear of naught but the most tasty images and themes. In memory, even the puckered concrete of Revachol looks beautiful. I remember the sky full of light and waters splashing against the stone port. Young blood and music omit the day drunks covered in bird shit.

I feel like a guitar pick, choosing to strum my way along these wires of sense and memory.

I feel that each day, I begin with a new brain that interprets the previous experiences and my next experiences in a completely different way than I did the day before. I feel like my pace within time is not linear. I feel like I lose the narrative of my life often. Like a Wirral game warden who hasn't read the module.

I have a very small sliver of ego with which to engage the world. I know that this ego likes things, or at least claims to.

I walked past some strange kids bobbing spastically to some droning track, probably by Arno Van Eyck. It seems blissful to dance upon the spinning discs of art and culture. If I was up there, I would inject a strain of wholesome self-awareness into the zeitgeist. Broadcast a message of divine love and cosmic unity. I want to spread my wings in such a way that I teach other people to spread theirs, too. Disco shit. I feel like that is the dream I have had buried by Faln athletic fabrics.

I say that I enjoy writing, but maybe I really enjoy the self aggrandizement and peacocking one finds within the written word. I like how wickedly powerful these little symbols can be when placed in the right way at the right time. It is fucking mouth watering. I don't like repeating lines but I will quote someone here: “Writing is literally magick, that is why they call it spelling.” I can see it now. All of the potential hidden within each of these teeny tiny balls of soul energy. These, embodieed bits and bobs of the human mind. Each one, if nothing else, strikes upon the harpsichord of your brain enough to produce an instinctive response. Let that instinct enliven this text as a spoken word from a body of light code and radio transistors. Let its meaning find you in the high frequency airwaves shooting from Jamrock to Revachol, and the greater Insulinde.

Enough wallowing. Emitt is back home now. Fritte needs a new sales associate, and I need rent money. I'm tuning into Speedfreaks FM now. Let Mesh and Flacio drown out my thoughts...

Irayna Volomo