delusions.

“vivimos en los cielos, en las fantasías, donde nada puede tocarnos.”

lo creí. con todo mi corazón. la verdad es que nadie puede tocarnos… solamente tú… y éste fue el problema, y donde el engaño esta viviendo.

___

i am bouncing back and forth between absolute clarity — in the form of forgiveness and understanding — and loathing — targeted outwardly and inwardly. it is unbearable. it is on like, a three-hour cycle. i hardly feel like a human being, and far, far, far away from myself. the things i need to do are piling up, and i know not how to find the heart to actually do most of them.

how the fuck does this happen.
how how how how how how how how how how how how how fucking how.
we know absolutely nothing. we are nothing. ————————– nothing.
and they claim to see
and feel empathy
but they feeling nothing.
selfish delights only.
we think of ourselves, only.

i am a trifecta of sick, stressed, and sad, and there is nothing i can do about it that will stick for more than a few hours.

TRIFECTA OF DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM.

GOD, WE ARE SO FULL OF SHIT.
YOU ME WE.

The Enemy

My youth was a dark storm,
Crossed here and there by brilliant suns;
Thunder and rain have caused such quick ravage
That there remain in my garden very few red fruits.

Now I have touched the autumn of my mind,
And I must use the spade and rakes
To assemble again the drenched lands,
Where the water digs holes as large as graves.

And who knows whether the new flowers I dream of
Will find in this soil washed like a shore
The mystic food which would create their strength?

—O grief! O grief! Time eats away life,
And the dark Enemy who gnaws the heart
Grows and thrives on the blood we lose.

_____________________________________________

Ma jeunesse ne fut qu’un ténébreux orage,
Traversé çà et là par de brillants soleils;
Le tonnerre et la pluie ont fair un tel ravage,
Qu’il reste en mon jardin bien peu de fruits vermeils.

Voilà que j’ai touché l’automne des idées,
Et qu’il faut employer la plle et les râteux
Pour rassembler à neuf les terres inondées,
Où l’eau creuse des trous grands comme des tombeaux.

Et qui sait si les fleurs nouvelles que je rêve
Trouveront dans ce sol lavé comme une grève
Le mystique aliment qui ferait leur vigueur?

—O douleur! ô douleur! Le Temps mange la vie,
Et l’obscur ennemi qui nous ronge le coeur
Du sang que nous perdons croît et se fortifie!

— Charles Baudelaire, from Les Fleurs du Mal (Flowers of Evil)