#01-2021

[superstarfighter]

08 | 01 | 2021: Ran 10k in the morning, oatmeal for breakfast and then my plan for the day got cancelled due to failed cooperation of my colleague. The postponed task was not primarly work for myself anyway, but I find it annoying when I (*we!) had plans that only I try to stick to? Nevermind, I’ll meet a few of my friends via zoom later today and have a joint tea or coffee break. We haven’t talked in almost three weeks, I believe, and it is about time! [31/100]

[superstarfighter]

04 | 01 | 2021: Back to work. My desk is all cleaned up, bujo is ready (hey bear!) and the weather is gloomy enough to make me not want to leave my room in the first place. This week calls for a lot of writing and somewhat of a deadline, I believe, for the writing class that I attended in december. wish me luck and I hope your week starts off alright, too! [27/100]

january study challenge – 04 | tv shows / movies you’re watching right now? (by @stu-dna​)

¯ Friends! (it’s back on netflix)

¯ otherwise I enjoyed After Life and Brooklyn 99.

¯ Parks and Recreations, too, I’m in season 6 now.

¯ Babylon Berlin

[superstarfighter]

january study challenge – 06 – are you an early bird or a night owl? (by @stu-dna)

Perpetually tired pigeon?! Maybe this needs some elaboration.

Work-wise, I seem to be a night owl but I do love being awake early in the morning. My sleep rhythm has me asleep between 2 and 10 am, so overall, night owl it is!

[superstarfighter]

07 | 01 | 2021: I woke up to white roofs as it was snowing this morning. Yesterday’s events left me awake for way too long and I kept browsing the news like a crazy person. Woke up tired this morning but went on my run anyway. The snow kept fogging up my glasses and my feet were wet pretty much from the beginning. The running map is here. [30/100]

I managed to shorten the intro of a paper I started in July (!) and found a few good and new papers to reference. I need to up my game a bit though.

[hemoclysmic]

23/01-21

i can never write, these days, without going on and on. i'm sick with searching to rid a hunger that cannot be sated.

all writers have one thing in common and it's fucking insanity, i think. even if it's pretty. even if it's the most beautiful words painting the most stunning picture. anyone that writes more than once is insane.

i don't make it beautiful, i try not to. just because it's not. never is.

Coleridge said poetry is the best words in the best order. That's why it's the work of a madman. Every piece is another attempt to defy the innate ineffability of anything, to fight everything about nature itself to find some kind of peace in existing.

Language is not made for the abstract malady that is human passions. It's like compressing a file. You cant get it across without leaving most of it out, and sure, a message gets across, but is it good enough? When it's blurry, it's easier for the information to get lost.

how do you grasp something that is said in every hand held, tear shed, note in the margins, bitter goodbye, neck craned to the stars, broken bone, sleeping child, plant watered, letter written, gasping laugh, choking sob, cat pet, dog-eared page, first breath taken, last, and so on. that everything is infinite and the same.

It's pure fanaticism. manic. trying to transfer a feeling to someone. writing is reaching out to grab anyone at all, shake them by the shoulders and ask "do you understand me? do you feel it? do we feel it the same? humanity? are we all the same dust in different shapes? am i alone? please, god, am i alone?"

it's human. it's so painfully human. it's what we send out to each other, to anyone that will listen, out into space, just in case. we are so scared of being alone. even with all of us together, we are a lonely species, planet, galaxy. writing is insanity and mortality.

(11/08-21 addition)

but: it has forever been, and always will, in spite of efforts, be loneliness that perseveres.

how lonely it is to think.

how lonely it is to feel.

how lonely it is to live solitary inside one's own existence.

i can't help but believe, in this, that i understand the monster Shelley writes of. he's not human, maybe, but he's an amalgam of them. lonely species. lonely planet. lonely galaxy. i will always be alone in my head, i will always be alone with the meanings of the words i say, i will always be sitting in this dark room with this burning bright spotlight hoping the migraine folds in spite of it. everything ive ever felt has been unique. everything you've ever felt has been unique. and maybe there has never ever been a duplicate emotion experienced, true understanding shared, in the long but terribly short history of Us.

People speak of love. And of sorrow. And of memories. And people nod and share their own. And it echoes an unvarying feedback loop through all of time. But nobody ever understands more than they believe themselves to, anything beyond the boundless tree of Happenings that lays in their wake, that holds their very self, and maybe, maybe, there have been ones close to matching, but isn't a branch or two of divergence enough to send the whole structure toppling down? I've never understood a word you've said. and you never any of mine, not truly, not the way you want, or I want. we sleep on beds of approximation. we are all souls aching to climb inside one another to find out a truth we never ever will see, pressing skin to skin like it might work, gripping tight just in case, and so. Is it truly surprising. That we writhe around, aching to soothe a loneliness that is written into our very world? do you think the stars ache for the same closeness? do they envy blue stragglers?

nobody has ever known anyone.

[hemoclysmic]

23/01-21

fuck. okay. i dont know.

im sorry ill never care for you in the same way you do for me.

it feels like, sometimes, i don't have enough love in me for a day, much less a lifetime or beyond. not to say that's what you expect. if i wanted you to hate me, you would, and i'm certain a day will come when you no longer look at me with those same eyes, and it'll probably be my fault.

i made you love me. i made you, made sure of it, and now i can't look you in the eyes because i never can anyway, and because i know this won't end well. it dawns on me i do this. i wrap people around my little finger like my hands around your neck, and when im done tying the bow i get bored or scared or both.

i'm sorry i never know what i want, and i get scared, and the pain always ends up on someone else while i go back to flatline safety. i'd like to be brave, yknow. i protect myself too much and too little at once. i dont know how to stay comfortable in discomfort. i dont know how to stop fucking talking about myself and everything in my head all the time.

sometimes, when there's a conflict of interest, one person becomes a reflection of the other. you are my pool of water. i am the corpse where the daffodils will sprout. im usually so caught up in being the mirror, i didn't notice you were mine. i'm terrified it'll come to matter that i don't love you, i love myself through your eyes. that's terrible. and narcissus deserved what he got—so will i. do i.

i'm sorry you are third best. i'm sorry you're the third best choice to someone else i abandoned, and the second best choice to selfishness.

you said it wasn't a love letter, but it read like one. you were echoing me, and i didn't see til now that it was. i'm so sorry. i'm so sorry.

you said it wasn't a love letter. this isnt a goodbye letter. this isn't a regretful letter. this isn't a letter at all. letters have senders and recipients. this isn't written for you to read. it's not about you, or us, just me, me me me, always me. never anything fucking but.

worst part - i've already changed my mind. i've already changed my mind.

isn't that terrible?

i wish i could ever just stay the same person for more than an hour.

i wish i would realise there's punctuation at the end of a sentence before i got there.

i wish i was less inside my head and outside my body.

i wish everything pretty wasn't covered in blood.

i wish there was a nicer way to say i'm sorry that i love you and that i don't.

ill figure it out.

[hemoclysmic]

19/01-21

fountain spitting ink and pen bleeding water is there any point in purpose when the rot gets us all what is anything but a chemical lighting up and fizzing out if something's broken does it deserve to break and if it doesn't serve it's purpose should it serve at all

are we anything more than the blood in our veins can i be something beyond the dirt under my skin does it matter does it matter does it matter when a door won't let anyone in

are you alive or waiting to die because ive been looking through you for years and the edge between you and the not is blurring waiting waiting but you don't have that kinda time are you building courage or hoping you wont need to

when the words dont seem so bad in your head but you cant make yourself say them either youve been keening or theyre worse than you thought and in any case maybe it should worry but it never ever does nobody ever does and its a question of replacing every plank or letting the boat sink cause regardless it's ridden with rot and really.

really. what is there to rebuild with. when you're always drowning one way or another. when the scraping and squishing tears at the inside of your skull and silence feels like violence and every creak makes your heart skip a beat, when voices are claws and music is gravel all through your spine. you can't grow sick of fear if the alternative is worse. how do you feel, creature, how? when you were not built to. why? this is not my design.