⠀ my stream of unconsciousness ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣿⣼⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣴⣱⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣴⠟⠛⠛⢿⣷⣤⣤⣤⡴⣯⣾⠏⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠜⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⢻⣮⣗⡿⠃⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣸⡿⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⡤⠶⠶⠶⣖⣦⣄⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⡾⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣸⣿⣻⣶⣋⣓⣆⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⡠⣴⠞⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⡴⠶⠾⠛⠛⠛⠿⣽⡁⠀⠀⠀⠉⠛⢙⣲⣦⣤⠴⠾⠛⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⢀⣶⠟⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⠓⠒⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⢠⡟⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠎⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ welcome :p 13.02.25 Big fan of writing down everything that happens, or speaking it aloud before I action something. It reminds me why language is so dear to me and keeps me from overlooking it. Reading about signs and semiotics, words as signals of meaning rather than linear descriptions of nouns and concepts. In fact, the relation between a word and its meaning transverses through a web of pathways before reaching what you might understand as a singular result. An example, fork. First, its an image, likely of slender silverware with three or four prongs. Next, of eating, carving, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing, that metallic smell, how it kind of looks like Poseidon's trident, Satan, meatloaf, your mother's meatloaf etcetera... I like how words are used to identify things that we cannot always hold in our hands, or might slip through the gaps between our fingers. Also, a moment of appreciation. I love this supportive little website ^^ this truly was the specialist of fish. 30.01.25 Well, the cat I wrote about months ago ended up giving us fleas. It has been officially banished and forbidden from the household! Also, that girl did move home and I never actioned anything. We still text sometimes and I'm quite happy nothing did happen. It's funny how things turn out. Recently things have been quite horrible. Though, I concluded that when bad things happen to me, as opposed to me making bad things happen for myself, I am much more at ease with perseverance. It feels more like a conquest to overcome. Or perhaps I just like having something to show for how terrible I'm feeling, but the last thing I want is for people to feel sorry for me. I've been so absent recently, from life, classes, everything. I'm going to keep showing up for myself if it's the last thing I do. I'm often both spellbound and terrified by the concept of free will, and how truly vast the world is. Baby's first thoughts I know, but it brings me both peace and anguish. What does it matter what I do? It doesn't. Isn't that amazing? Still, I'm entangled in a paralytic cycle of creativity. I deceive myself into thinking that my talent and hard work mean nothing if I don't create something real. Something to read, look at, muse over, listen to. I know that most people don't subscribe to that ideology, and I've tried to loosen my grip on it but it seems I'm bound to it eternally. When I look at my peers submitting to magazine, publishing, sharing their art I remember that I too can do these things, but I don't. Some perspex barrier polarizes me from this world. It reminds me of that song 'Headlock'. Really, I have nothing to share at all. I suppose it's a process I don't need to rush. One day I would love to write a visual novel and compose the music all by myself. Oh how good it is to live with nothing left to give? What did he mean by that? 07.10.24 i met a french exchange girl in my seminar today. she had tresses of brown hair, dark clothes, and a liquid eyeliner which fashioned crosses beneath the eyes. i was so anxious today, but i spoke for her, answering questions in a shaky voice playing an academic. we turned to each other at the same time, mouthing thank you (since she helped me with the answer, and i spoke for us). it was coincidental and intimate. after the class, i told her i was heading out for boba, and asked her favourite kind. 'taro milk tea', she informed me. she seemed to follow my trail, as if waiting for something to be actioned. i asked her, 'will you come with me?'. in honesty, i was exhausted, but her eagerness to come was revitalising. she beamed at her taro tea, which honestly was subpar to my drink, but i sipped it to entertain her, and so she wouldn't feel so bad about sharing mine. with the streets flooded with school children, we came across a wooden bench. she said it was beautiful, but i saw her looking my way as the words escaped her lips. what does it all mean? a statue of queen victoria towered over us, where the rust looked like cried-off mascara. we wheezed as i almost choked on my tapioca. i learned her grandfather loved Debussy too, i told her 'he's my favourite composer'. she asked me to teach her the piano, to which i replied 'one day'. she loves raclette in the winter time. she loves radiohead, who i actually brought up first. she collects records and believes in listening to albums exclusively in canonical order. i thought, 'maybe she's pretentious' until she showed me her guilty collection of twenty one pilots. and so, she's a stranger? i have got to stop fictionalising everything. i don't know if she looks at me the same, all i know is that she's going back to france in three months, of course. of course. 03.10.24 i moved into my shared home last week. every so often a pair of long-haired cats come to visit. maine coons, i think? nevertheless, they perch on our garage's corragated 'roof' (it has two gaping holes). the cold metal is softened by their warm palettes: the cats are brown and black. the brown cat is majestic and regal, its outline blurred into the radiant sunset like a gradient. the black cat is energetic, with striking yellow eyes, wide and curious. they both love me in their own ways, i think. i held the black cat closely to my chest and let my irises be swollen by the sunset. it takes centre stage around 7 o'clock, a celestial veil draping over the skyline. all the old builds, the telephone wires, the weaving web of black bins, they all emanate this golden glow. it lingers for a while until dark, where i am still outside savouring the final morsels of day. i think i'll buy some treats for the cats too. they're not my cats, but i don't mind. it's enough to actually love something, even if it isn't mine. 12.09.24 i have an idea for a story, it's set in an enclosed community in rural, southern america (or perhaps another place), a cultish one, you know the kind. i'm excited to research the relevant history, but, i'm also considering fantasy. there's something incredible about making my own laws and timeline for my writing to fall into perfectly. but there's also something sickeningly real about placing your words into lived events. i'm torn between them really, because a large part of the basis is concerning a strange wlw relationship, and its persecution. also, is it shallow to only write tragedies? does there have to be some redeeming, hopeful quality? i have a plan for this nevertheless: to frame my characters as 'sacrifices'. for what? queer freedom? or just a story of two people amongst many, whom were never allowed narrative. i have to chill, it doesn't have to be that deep, i'm staring intently at booktok romance here. but it's true. everything is that deep to me. 02.09.24 blood runs thicker than water- is that really true? presuming so, then my blood is over-diluted ribena and my water is a viscus cornstarch slurry. the kind you use in compote, which in itself resembles a sickening, clotting blood. it is a blood of my own making, which does not leak from pierced flesh. an elixir brewed through the whims of my decision. a life materialised by my own volition. not some generational heirloom, the fallacy that i inherited which is commonly known as family. apparently that quote has biblical origins. explains why it's false. 30.08.24 aquariums are neat :] 26.08.24 san fran has been nice. i cried on the golden gate bridge, but my drying tears cooled me down as i kept cycling. it might have even enhanced the experience. i forgot that my shut-in skin cannot handle any UV, and now i look like a dish at the nearby crab restaurant. i'm trying to handle myself but my grip is shaky on the bars. i'm trying to keep a lid on things but the pot's boiling over. soon everyone will be coughing out steam, or shooting it out their noses like dragons. my body in respiration, like air in circulation. to even look outside, it robs me of my composure. 14.08.24 i love buying gifts for people ♡ it makes me happiest when i pick out a bespoke, niche gift for someone and they realise that i actually listen to them and value their words. i love making things for people and the look of shock and bewilderment as they receive it. just something to linger over :) 12.08.24 i need you so much closer. to stroke your cheek, i can only imagine how that feels. 11.08.24 to die in a world indebted to me is to die happily, but to act in constant repentance is not living. you don't earn the right to exist, it is given to you. existence and guilt in their almighty covenant, branded within us like a hot iron's scald. continue in spite of this. a life paying off a fictional debt is nothing but a punishment. 09.08.24 i feel like i need to be thrown into an ice bath and attend a catholic confessional. i feel like i just need my hair stroked and to reconnect with the beauty of small victories. life is beautiful :D (when you let yourself live it) why does pretty cvnt keep getting removed from spotify? how the fuck do you make breakcore. 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃