aka: i don't necessarily know how to communicate how much I mean it when I say "I love you" "I've been ruminating", as I say frequently when trying to explain something (I've been wishing to curb my habits of self-conscious self-reflexivity, but alas), the idea that love exists as one of the eternal orthodox virtues. This was spurred an attempt of mine to read, comprehend and discuss the content of Michel Foucault's article "What is Criticism?" for the 101-level communications course I tutor. It was through my struggle to do so that I conceptualized notions of love that I propose in this piece. Within a tutorial class I ran, (as a strategy to motivate oneself to study and understand academic material) I proposed a notion of "love" as a practice of understanding and comprehension, based on Jeff Rosenstock's claim that "Love is worry," and the Umineko meta-witchian perspective that "Without love, it can not be se...
yeah just as an distraction read some more film papers about how to reach abstraction yeah everybody's tried it everyone's written their thoughts so read and read and read and read and read and read until you drop fairy lights all over I've got a pretty tomb this century old building shakes when I'm having sex with you my brain drops the inhibition no pretenses to be had it's not that you have to but art's easier when you're sad so slap hard me on the ass even though I don't really want you to and sink your jaws into my neck bite way less hard than I ask you to let me scream into my teeth but you need to give me reason to just bite into the fucking apple
not knowing your place in the world is dangerous I've been living on the ground for years now i need to become how i was before the natural colors of my roots grow in again tangled out grasping for air I'm living that mundane living dream I play pathfinder every monday with my friends and my friends love me and my colleagues think I have potential I'm not doing much these days but reading through old essay papers from the lauded 20th century film and music artists and I got the feeling that this modest life is sweet she was loved by her friends and family but I've got that sick fetish for necrophilia cast upon myself I want people to read off all the drugs listed in my autopsy I want people to desecrate my grave I want people to deep fake my likeness oh my, that boy sacrificed so much sleepless nights look at the clusters of eczema'd skin dried up along his arm the calloused hands, my god, what a texture, what a shape the worst part is that I yearn for the light t...
Comments
Post a Comment