atmosphere. prose.

The stars never used to stir me. Until I realized how far away they were, how far away the light is. Then I watch them watch me with philosophical inevitability, and wonder how much of the cold outside is for me.
I'm trying to live in the present moment, and with that as my principle, have a life that suits.
I don't wear make up anymore, and I'm not any way sure about the definition of that, of that self without makeup.
Makeup is marketed with and as definition. If that turns out to mean anything I expect it'll be the central theme of my novel, because it sounds acceptable to me.


I am writing to let the reader decide what type of flower will cure depression..
There have been worse ideas.

Someone asked me if I wore makeup today and I said no. I didn't mention that I'd been thinking about wearing it again.
As it was something I was not doing, except imaginatively, I wondered how much truth was in that kinaesthetic to do list.

That I am thinking and talking about it alone, declares it's not worth much.
The definition of make up I cannot find because I am not in my room and there is no internet connection here.
There is no dictionary, and the people who live in my flat
are taking speed and talking about reincarnation and milkshake.
That to me is satisfying, because it is nothing to do with me.
I have no milkshake and
am not currently being reincarnated.

It would be a lie to say I didn't want to reinvent myself, but without probing further, I'm not in the mood ever these days to colour in.
I still prefer scribbling all over life.
the positive essential is that I am and always have to be inventing, or stimming, or doing something that I'm not self aware enough to write about.
I no longer need to kill my ego - the reason is lost.
Makeup is an effort.
Effort is an element of make up,
and some effervescent lack - but style is boredom and an out of sync celebration of natural change that is content at sidestepping, connecting and being offended by artificial change. but perpetuating it to live through art.
If it's an art the outcome will be something about the pieces own separate denial from the artists.

Think about what perspective you want, and however familiar you are with truth, whatever it is to you, understand that you already have it. It is not something you are looking for. Take advice from my psychologist and don't concern yourself with truth at least with regards to this. There is a fair chance I am psychotic. I know that anti psychotic medication alters me to perform more pointless tasks.
When dealing with psychosis, a therapist isn't there to determine what is real and what is not.

the news and public, began to drown me in persons, ideas... there not to be explored, but with predictable nobility, discovered.

wreaked with isolation, sad, stranded, and with a kind, odd harp like wonder for what my life is going to be.
The audience of my failure wrap themselves in status.

The seas edge is lips that don't talk, suspended there to show the clear ability of words,
but the time never comes to say anything.

It was no atmosphere, with bullies.

regressive
fucking under
a satellite,
maybe the people who have seen it have gone away, to be sure that they do not meet me.
Nevermind, the sea is inviting, and the people, real people it feels like when checking in with the wind, are good and I like them.
I aim to articulate, without bias, the levity of man's blankness .
It's possible they are understanding now but I've stopped listening.

to go about malfunctioning and sabotaging every piece of me that somehow, by some pathological stature, I'm still allowed to hold and fuck about with.

I'll try not to be religious in this, because you'll find God in anything you let go and skip hop for a breath in.

To continue writing about is soothing, there doesn't have to be such a disconnection between that world, or time, and that which I am programmed to live, /drift or run with, now. the present.



Happiness featured there somewhere,