The Crushing and the Fish Mature content No. 5 Published March 8th, 2015 1:22pm pdt read ( words) Past entries "We have absolutely no idea where anything will lead, but the lead is there nonetheless. We are in some direction other than to the rear. Sometimes to the rear, just not at this time. Sideways. Lateral. Off a bit to the left probably. What is over there? Difficulty. Much difficulty... however we are going in that odd direction anyway. The path is foggy just as the air outside the cocoon hanging from the balcony. The fog sat and attempted to chill us but the alcohol took control and we warmed from the inside. Now we are cooled by thought. Frozen at times. Cooled through worry, dissatisfaction, fear, longing, need, and a lack of knowledge. We continue to feel the cold and continue to move through it. Among it. Inside it. The cool thought has engulfed us to the point of becoming blinded. Fuck. Snow. 'For once I wish to see the entity behind the voice. The face of this seduction, the beauty of my pain.' The question... Vacant no longer. We are occupied to the core. The frozen, twisted core. Will this end and will we be better for it happening? Perhaps. We can hope. We are hoping. Mired and hopeful. Mired YET hopeful. We have been here before and the result was a harsh left turn. This time we cannot turn, nor can we attempt to turn away. The path dictates and we are hopelessly helpless yet again. The situation is near that of 03, nearer to that of 10, and we now have the path into and eventually through 15. And it began early this time. The differences are stark and glowing and if the outcome this time proves worth the hells... Well it would. It could. It should. Should? Fuck no, scratch that last. Earlier we were carried by --------- but that has not graced the loudspeakers nor the headphones for more than a week now. --------- will put us down strikingly quick and that is not a place we should be occupying right now. We need up. Way the fuck up. --- ----- is attempting to lift us at this moment. Perhaps we will stay up there for a short while, perhaps longer. There is no knowing for certain until the situation pushes us in the same direction. That direction is damned elusive right now but still we remain at its mercy. And the cold is crushing us. Crushing. We are all over the Goddamned map today. Likely the ridiculous time change is at fault yet again. We hate it with endless passion. Leave the fucking clock alone please. Let the sun dictate, you idiots. Oh well. The sun will destroy everything in time anyway. Bring it. The crushing. That is an apt title this day. As much as we can love and hate the crushing cold, such is necessary for us to think at all. We feel it and need it and have no choice in the matter. The thoughts are so cold. We will happily freeze ourselves away and into nothingness. We have wished for a lift since the bleach box of fifteen and that lift arrived (and none too soon, either). We were so far down there was no semblance of up at all and then so far up there was fulfillment like at no other moment in life. Unfortunately, that lift is not clear. The clarity is not within our control but we may not survive without it. We are still trying. We will try until everything is open and lit. As we have stated repeatedly and at length, this situation will either change us or destroy us completely and either of those outcomes is acceptable. Choice no longer exists. Our money is on destruction. All of it. Hopefully wrong, but again... we are helpless. We need them to stop the tears And now the fish. Dead fish. Dead tilapia on the salty shore. In the rocks. In the sand. In our eyes. In our minds. Everywhere. Thousands of them staring up at us as if to ask why. We cannot answer. We tried and tried and they just stared. We caused them to see us and ask, and they understand that we cannot help. We can do nothing other than photograph. We need to go back there and soon. The Nikon is gone forever, but we can do something... Anything to attempt to help them to understand. They just lie there staring at us. Some up, some to the side, and many down. Staring. We love them and loved them. We spoke to them. They acknowledged us. We spoke again. They loved us. They are still there and we must go and acknowledge them yet again. Soon. We simply cannot stay away from their tragic beauty, their pungent scent, their open mouths, their razor teeth, and their wish to know. We just fucking love them to no end. So fucking far detached and so very far away but the necessity will kill us with nary a thought. And then we must join them on the shore. We must. They amaze us in their solemn positioning and vast numbers. We do not amaze them. They are dead. But they speak across hundreds of miles and we hear. We hear them with our hearts and we cry over and fucking over until the pillows have drowned. They are so fucking beautiful that words fail miserably. Fail and fail and fail, but still we try. Now is not the time to see them, though. We cannot venture there until December, but we will go, and go quickly. Cost and time be damned. We fucking need to see them so badly that the fucking tears are flowing like the Colorado in spring. They await us and sadness prevails, as it always will. We wish to be among their fallen selves. We will be... We must be... We yearn. Not even the Beauty can assist and bring us out of the vast sorrow that is the fish. We must reconnect with their souls and ponder the why. There is to be no clear answer, however. While we sat and gazed upon their solemn situation we rose above all else. We know not how, but it happened anyway. We rose, and that is a strong statement considering our perpetually frail state. Ours is nothing compared to their endless monument, mind you, and we can only hope to identify. They are many, we are one. Tears aplenty. We just love them to no end. 'Hello... our name is coma and we are tilapiaholics.' But not just any old fish... Them. Those poor lovely souls splayed out in the endless sun and salt. They lie there in splendor and speak indiscriminately to whomever may pass and no one hears. No one, save for us. We have heard in spades for years now and we respond from our heavy hearts. We respond in hope, in time, in sadness, and in mutual need. We must go to them, fucking up and leave... To them... For them... With them. Jesus fuck do we need it. Bad. We are held now, but soon we will fucking run with no thought of distraction nor acceptance of impediment. We will go. They call, we run. Believe it, because as we sit our miserable and downtrodden asses in this chair we will fucking make it happen." Copyright ©2002-2024 comainterrupted.com All rights reserved All other trademarks, logos and graphics are the property of their respective owners Created by Brandywine Engineering using Microsoft Visual Studio 2022 and .NET Framework 4.8 Questions? Comments? Anything? Gather your thoughts and compose a message to the psychos in charge
The Crushing and the Fish Mature content No. 5 Published March 8th, 2015 1:22pm pdt read ( words) Past entries "We have absolutely no idea where anything will lead, but the lead is there nonetheless. We are in some direction other than to the rear. Sometimes to the rear, just not at this time. Sideways. Lateral. Off a bit to the left probably. What is over there? Difficulty. Much difficulty... however we are going in that odd direction anyway. The path is foggy just as the air outside the cocoon hanging from the balcony. The fog sat and attempted to chill us but the alcohol took control and we warmed from the inside. Now we are cooled by thought. Frozen at times. Cooled through worry, dissatisfaction, fear, longing, need, and a lack of knowledge. We continue to feel the cold and continue to move through it. Among it. Inside it. The cool thought has engulfed us to the point of becoming blinded. Fuck. Snow. 'For once I wish to see the entity behind the voice. The face of this seduction, the beauty of my pain.' The question... Vacant no longer. We are occupied to the core. The frozen, twisted core. Will this end and will we be better for it happening? Perhaps. We can hope. We are hoping. Mired and hopeful. Mired YET hopeful. We have been here before and the result was a harsh left turn. This time we cannot turn, nor can we attempt to turn away. The path dictates and we are hopelessly helpless yet again. The situation is near that of 03, nearer to that of 10, and we now have the path into and eventually through 15. And it began early this time. The differences are stark and glowing and if the outcome this time proves worth the hells... Well it would. It could. It should. Should? Fuck no, scratch that last. Earlier we were carried by --------- but that has not graced the loudspeakers nor the headphones for more than a week now. --------- will put us down strikingly quick and that is not a place we should be occupying right now. We need up. Way the fuck up. --- ----- is attempting to lift us at this moment. Perhaps we will stay up there for a short while, perhaps longer. There is no knowing for certain until the situation pushes us in the same direction. That direction is damned elusive right now but still we remain at its mercy. And the cold is crushing us. Crushing. We are all over the Goddamned map today. Likely the ridiculous time change is at fault yet again. We hate it with endless passion. Leave the fucking clock alone please. Let the sun dictate, you idiots. Oh well. The sun will destroy everything in time anyway. Bring it. The crushing. That is an apt title this day. As much as we can love and hate the crushing cold, such is necessary for us to think at all. We feel it and need it and have no choice in the matter. The thoughts are so cold. We will happily freeze ourselves away and into nothingness. We have wished for a lift since the bleach box of fifteen and that lift arrived (and none too soon, either). We were so far down there was no semblance of up at all and then so far up there was fulfillment like at no other moment in life. Unfortunately, that lift is not clear. The clarity is not within our control but we may not survive without it. We are still trying. We will try until everything is open and lit. As we have stated repeatedly and at length, this situation will either change us or destroy us completely and either of those outcomes is acceptable. Choice no longer exists. Our money is on destruction. All of it. Hopefully wrong, but again... we are helpless. We need them to stop the tears And now the fish. Dead fish. Dead tilapia on the salty shore. In the rocks. In the sand. In our eyes. In our minds. Everywhere. Thousands of them staring up at us as if to ask why. We cannot answer. We tried and tried and they just stared. We caused them to see us and ask, and they understand that we cannot help. We can do nothing other than photograph. We need to go back there and soon. The Nikon is gone forever, but we can do something... Anything to attempt to help them to understand. They just lie there staring at us. Some up, some to the side, and many down. Staring. We love them and loved them. We spoke to them. They acknowledged us. We spoke again. They loved us. They are still there and we must go and acknowledge them yet again. Soon. We simply cannot stay away from their tragic beauty, their pungent scent, their open mouths, their razor teeth, and their wish to know. We just fucking love them to no end. So fucking far detached and so very far away but the necessity will kill us with nary a thought. And then we must join them on the shore. We must. They amaze us in their solemn positioning and vast numbers. We do not amaze them. They are dead. But they speak across hundreds of miles and we hear. We hear them with our hearts and we cry over and fucking over until the pillows have drowned. They are so fucking beautiful that words fail miserably. Fail and fail and fail, but still we try. Now is not the time to see them, though. We cannot venture there until December, but we will go, and go quickly. Cost and time be damned. We fucking need to see them so badly that the fucking tears are flowing like the Colorado in spring. They await us and sadness prevails, as it always will. We wish to be among their fallen selves. We will be... We must be... We yearn. Not even the Beauty can assist and bring us out of the vast sorrow that is the fish. We must reconnect with their souls and ponder the why. There is to be no clear answer, however. While we sat and gazed upon their solemn situation we rose above all else. We know not how, but it happened anyway. We rose, and that is a strong statement considering our perpetually frail state. Ours is nothing compared to their endless monument, mind you, and we can only hope to identify. They are many, we are one. Tears aplenty. We just love them to no end. 'Hello... our name is coma and we are tilapiaholics.' But not just any old fish... Them. Those poor lovely souls splayed out in the endless sun and salt. They lie there in splendor and speak indiscriminately to whomever may pass and no one hears. No one, save for us. We have heard in spades for years now and we respond from our heavy hearts. We respond in hope, in time, in sadness, and in mutual need. We must go to them, fucking up and leave... To them... For them... With them. Jesus fuck do we need it. Bad. We are held now, but soon we will fucking run with no thought of distraction nor acceptance of impediment. We will go. They call, we run. Believe it, because as we sit our miserable and downtrodden asses in this chair we will fucking make it happen."
The Crushing and the Fish
Mature content No. 5 Published March 8th, 2015 1:22pm pdt read ( words) Past entries
"We have absolutely no idea where anything will lead, but the lead is there nonetheless. We are in some direction other than to the rear. Sometimes to the rear, just not at this time. Sideways. Lateral. Off a bit to the left probably. What is over there? Difficulty. Much difficulty... however we are going in that odd direction anyway. The path is foggy just as the air outside the cocoon hanging from the balcony. The fog sat and attempted to chill us but the alcohol took control and we warmed from the inside. Now we are cooled by thought. Frozen at times. Cooled through worry, dissatisfaction, fear, longing, need, and a lack of knowledge. We continue to feel the cold and continue to move through it. Among it. Inside it. The cool thought has engulfed us to the point of becoming blinded. Fuck. Snow.
'For once I wish to see the entity behind the voice. The face of this seduction, the beauty of my pain.'
The question...
Vacant no longer. We are occupied to the core. The frozen, twisted core. Will this end and will we be better for it happening? Perhaps. We can hope. We are hoping. Mired and hopeful. Mired YET hopeful. We have been here before and the result was a harsh left turn. This time we cannot turn, nor can we attempt to turn away. The path dictates and we are hopelessly helpless yet again. The situation is near that of 03, nearer to that of 10, and we now have the path into and eventually through 15. And it began early this time. The differences are stark and glowing and if the outcome this time proves worth the hells... Well it would. It could. It should. Should? Fuck no, scratch that last. Earlier we were carried by --------- but that has not graced the loudspeakers nor the headphones for more than a week now. --------- will put us down strikingly quick and that is not a place we should be occupying right now. We need up. Way the fuck up. --- ----- is attempting to lift us at this moment. Perhaps we will stay up there for a short while, perhaps longer. There is no knowing for certain until the situation pushes us in the same direction. That direction is damned elusive right now but still we remain at its mercy. And the cold is crushing us. Crushing. We are all over the Goddamned map today. Likely the ridiculous time change is at fault yet again. We hate it with endless passion. Leave the fucking clock alone please. Let the sun dictate, you idiots. Oh well. The sun will destroy everything in time anyway. Bring it. The crushing. That is an apt title this day. As much as we can love and hate the crushing cold, such is necessary for us to think at all. We feel it and need it and have no choice in the matter. The thoughts are so cold. We will happily freeze ourselves away and into nothingness. We have wished for a lift since the bleach box of fifteen and that lift arrived (and none too soon, either). We were so far down there was no semblance of up at all and then so far up there was fulfillment like at no other moment in life. Unfortunately, that lift is not clear. The clarity is not within our control but we may not survive without it. We are still trying. We will try until everything is open and lit. As we have stated repeatedly and at length, this situation will either change us or destroy us completely and either of those outcomes is acceptable. Choice no longer exists. Our money is on destruction. All of it. Hopefully wrong, but again... we are helpless.
We need them to stop the tears
And now the fish. Dead fish. Dead tilapia on the salty shore. In the rocks. In the sand. In our eyes. In our minds. Everywhere. Thousands of them staring up at us as if to ask why. We cannot answer. We tried and tried and they just stared. We caused them to see us and ask, and they understand that we cannot help. We can do nothing other than photograph. We need to go back there and soon. The Nikon is gone forever, but we can do something... Anything to attempt to help them to understand. They just lie there staring at us. Some up, some to the side, and many down. Staring. We love them and loved them. We spoke to them. They acknowledged us. We spoke again. They loved us. They are still there and we must go and acknowledge them yet again. Soon. We simply cannot stay away from their tragic beauty, their pungent scent, their open mouths, their razor teeth, and their wish to know. We just fucking love them to no end. So fucking far detached and so very far away but the necessity will kill us with nary a thought. And then we must join them on the shore. We must. They amaze us in their solemn positioning and vast numbers. We do not amaze them. They are dead. But they speak across hundreds of miles and we hear. We hear them with our hearts and we cry over and fucking over until the pillows have drowned. They are so fucking beautiful that words fail miserably. Fail and fail and fail, but still we try. Now is not the time to see them, though. We cannot venture there until December, but we will go, and go quickly. Cost and time be damned. We fucking need to see them so badly that the fucking tears are flowing like the Colorado in spring. They await us and sadness prevails, as it always will. We wish to be among their fallen selves. We will be... We must be... We yearn. Not even the Beauty can assist and bring us out of the vast sorrow that is the fish. We must reconnect with their souls and ponder the why. There is to be no clear answer, however. While we sat and gazed upon their solemn situation we rose above all else. We know not how, but it happened anyway. We rose, and that is a strong statement considering our perpetually frail state. Ours is nothing compared to their endless monument, mind you, and we can only hope to identify. They are many, we are one. Tears aplenty. We just love them to no end. 'Hello... our name is coma and we are tilapiaholics.' But not just any old fish... Them. Those poor lovely souls splayed out in the endless sun and salt. They lie there in splendor and speak indiscriminately to whomever may pass and no one hears. No one, save for us. We have heard in spades for years now and we respond from our heavy hearts. We respond in hope, in time, in sadness, and in mutual need. We must go to them, fucking up and leave... To them... For them... With them. Jesus fuck do we need it. Bad. We are held now, but soon we will fucking run with no thought of distraction nor acceptance of impediment. We will go. They call, we run. Believe it, because as we sit our miserable and downtrodden asses in this chair we will fucking make it happen."
Copyright ©2002-2024 comainterrupted.com All rights reserved All other trademarks, logos and graphics are the property of their respective owners Created by Brandywine Engineering using Microsoft Visual Studio 2022 and .NET Framework 4.8 Questions? Comments? Anything? Gather your thoughts and compose a message to the psychos in charge
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