Some things match perfectly. Haven’t I said that before?
Тъпо е когато си постваш песни във фейсбук, защото хората харесват само песни, които знаят.
Тъпо е също, когато пожелаваш на някого всичко най-. Всичко най-какво? Мързеливо стои.
Sometimes I read as I walk. Or walk as I read. The wind violently rapes my hair, it tingles up my sleeves, my shoulders scream from pain from the books in the bag from school from home – I always take the same things with me and I always bring them back. I once read about a woman who read books and then left them somewhere – say, on a bench, for someone else to take them to read. Would I ever do that? Would anyone ever take a lonely book from anywhere? Doesn’t abandoning a book – and abandoning anything, really – mean that it is not good enough? Does this make me not good enough then? To whom? Does it matter if someone thought I sucked? Or perhaps it wasn’t even me, it occurs to me now, who sucked, it was the person who left me, the person who chose another person before me. It came to me, as my mother and I walked, arm by arm, she was carrying bags, I was as well, her steps were calm and hesitant, mine – reluctantly waiting for hers to catch up, our shoes covered with dust, rust and the last specks of winter on our ground, in our neighborhood, at out home, at my home, at her home, where I grew up, where she grew up – I wonder why she never left. Sometimes I think of my mom as some of the strangest people I know – and it is not striking or peculiar, because I am the same as her, I am as strange as her and sometimes I think of myself and I curse the fact I am not understood. But at times I thank to an invisible power that I am different because this is lucky.
Her loud laughter, how she engrosses in thoughts on the subway, how she bites her lips, how her facial expressions change while she’s just standing there, without doing nothing, while she’s commuting from home to work, she’s not with anyone and she’s not thinking of anyone but she’s doing some weird face again and then I know she is my mother, ’cause I do this too.
Am I always like this? I am, I am, I am, I am always like this
Проблемите не извират от факта, че си слагам ръцете между краката
Извират, когато някой си сложи ръцете между краката ми, все едно съм му собственост, все едно съм му някаква въобще, за да задоволи лицемерния си вулгарен нагон, който е толкова vague за него, колкото и ядрената физика, hell, това са си моите бедра и никой няма право да докосва света ми и която и да е част от него, защо хората го правят, защо си мислят, че всичко е позволено, че всичко може да е на шега, ма ти защо се впрягаш толкова, ее, то беше на ебавка
Защо се впрягам ли, защо, защото трябва човек да се впряга понякога, защото за някои неща си струва, защото ми омръзна от тази апатия у хората, защото трябва да се боря за нещо винаги, защото това е смисълът на всичко, защо,защо,защо, защо
ох не исках да звуча така
днес си купих рокли
всъщност се чувствам доста добре – чета много
толкова, друго засега не ми е ясно