Julianne and the Distance Mature content No. 23 Published February 26th, 2016 6:22am pst read ( words) Past entries "Each day brings a new depth and a different scene laid out in front of us. We attempt time and time again to rise above the caress of alcohol and the distorted sense of awareness which has taken over our collective psyche, but the effort brings only heartache, despair, and further dissolving of capacities. The relaxation after day to day business has become a fraction of the escape it once was. This editor has become the only saving throw versus both the past and the present -- difficulties which in the past were easily overcome, and now the slightest step aside from our needs is traumatic. Each waking moment is filled with thoughts, nightmares, dreams, and recollections of who we were and who we have become, and the contrast is more stark than the desert sun upon snow. The falling, the rope, the air, and the blood have become defining segments of the disjointed reality within which we spin. We are so far distanced from the light and hopeful feelings of the past that the shimmering and glaring positive direction we once enjoyed is so far gone that the black has become comfortable. Hmm. The black. Perhaps we should refer to such as the familiar. After these past years of falling down the same hill, the blackness is now the norm. We sit here day after miserable day and attempt to carve the feelings from our heart and display them for all to see and the typical result is nothingness. Just fucking nothing. The lady lies; the mirror does not So here we sit for the thousandth time in a futile attempt to describe both what we see and what we feel. Why? We do not know. Do we continue? Do we manufacture the cards and push forth? Or do we sit and wallow as always? Again, we simply do not know. We have direction but no direction. Does that make sense? Perhaps a more fitting description would be the direction we feel versus the direction we need. There is no answer. The only certainty now is the distance we have traveled to work and slave over this obsession throughout the past many years. We are very far from there, and yet still a world away from any realization. Yes, everything crashed and exploded during the summer of fifteen, but since then we should have been able to do something. Any fucking thing. We are just too far away. The distance has become too great to travel. Many hours have been spent here at this infernal editor in hopes of finding some inspiration which will grab us and launch this project (read: insanity) up and out of the doldrums and into a space we can comfortably inhabit and work through. We are glued to this chair staring at Julianne's hair on the other monitor as we try to find the words. Her sharp shoulders look back at us asking the simple task of description. Just as all of the other examples which have strolled by, she awaits justification and recognition. There is none of that right now. The toughness of seeing her there on the screen, idly standing and awaiting the shutter release, is becoming what shapes our thoughts, feelings, and the words which fly off our fingers. She is the reason for ambition within this damaged and downward world. There is nothing else which has the capability to propel us up and out of the dirt. On top of that, there are very disturbing historical parallels which are working inside us as she relates to so many uncomfortable and toilsome situations. Those times were the cause of pain which still remains, and the knowledge of the past pushes us to keep everything close. We are beginning to do that now. The organizational difficulties which the staff mentioned above are in the works and are directly coupled to our increasing need to hide all of this from the outside -- from 'them'. This is not a healthy solution by any means, however one which has become necessary for our survival. Ugh to the nth. Julianne has stood there looking back at us across the chasm and we feel the need so greatly that there is no return trip. None. Fuck. Stretching our limits This bullshit has gone on for so long that we are now losing the compulsion and heading in the direction of trouble unlike we have ever felt. Images are one thing, but seeing this art in person has become crippling -- and we mean to say paralyzing. The feeling is to run straight to this editor and type, along with alcohol consumption -- just drowning into the obsession and dreaming of an end which is extremely unlikely. The Raven brought us so much hope for the future that the current situation without Her is the opposite. We are still dropping from that terrible event not long ago, and the loss is still fresh. Her demeanor toward us defined what could and should be, but now we have nothing save for a mass of images and disjointed visions of need. Julianne's unique look is rivaled only by that of the Raven. We cannot put this woman on the page with any effectiveness other than throwing appropriate images of her between the text. Her beauty, as interrupted by our sordid and desperate words. She hangs there mid-page and looks out with young eyes and sees a world we can no longer fit within. We are slowly being reduced to frailty and despondency while she is on the rise. Of course, she is not at fault for a damned thing. We do not know her, nor her us. All we have is data. Even as we type these words, they are heading out into a world which is much more likely to be familiar with her, yet still over here in the gutter we reside with the look of a dead creature sliding down a muddy slope and into the detritus -- the remains of what could have been. Simply put, we are feeling the distance as it becomes too great to bear. There may be an end for us, but there is no end to her beauty The pain which stabs at us at every sight is nearly unbearable, and to look upon Julianne brings a similar knife. [Yes, nearly every image displayed here is monochrome for good reason -- they need to be viewed on an even playing field. Put another way, all of these beautiful creatures of the world must be equal from at least one standpoint. Julianne's gorgeous poses need not show full color in order to be as incredible as they are. She is the reason, not the variety or range of hues.] There is no escaping the nature of these feelings, no matter whether we sit in front of the editor with her staring back nor when a similar woman appears nearby. The blade is in us, constantly -- it has become a part of everyday life. This is the fault of no one but ourselves. Movement in any direction has become truncated and so arduous that we function almost entirely for the need and hope for a change. We have little hope of anything, in fact, because of a lack of decent reason. Others may comment that looking outward and away from things which bring so much heartache are the best paths. They automatically push for such a thing due to years of programming toward the positive. For us, there are only the briefest of seconds when the light becomes viewable. Quickly, it is gone, and replaced by the black of our unending an unrelenting desire. Last year's adventure to the north was a long break from editing, and a period which turned from relaxation to pain. We missed the editor, and of course we took mental and physical notes along the way for future material, but even at the very last moment we dropped -- despite ten days of enjoyment. Directly in front of us while exiting the ship there was a tipsy and silly woman who decided to drink the morning of disembarkation and her resulting behavior was quite funny. She walked along the path to the exit, mimosa in hand, and looked unreal. Tall, well-dressed, and displaying the cut lines with which we are intimately familiar. As we followed along with the others leaving the vessel, she stood out like a god among insects. All at once we fell down that well-known hill and the cuts began. Along the ride home we felt as if we had been sucking on ether for weeks. The need did not stop, as we were powerless against it. We remain as such. Always. Julianne and her incredible hair Expect a future of this, and much more than one might believe possible. Unfortunately, there does not seem to be any other direction -- no turns, no switches, nor any other type of change. Unless we step into some type of fucking miracle in the coming months, this drop shall continue unimpeded. We are accustomed enough to weather the fucking shit for the time being. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Fuck it all anyway. If we were truly born to feel this way, the continuation of everything as it now stands will be the goddamned status quo. Forever? What is that?No matter... one day soon we shall be in the ground with all of our misplaced needs, deviant desires, and degraded hope. The decay has begun and we slide downward into the pit in earnest." 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
Julianne and the Distance Mature content No. 23 Published February 26th, 2016 6:22am pst read ( words) Past entries "Each day brings a new depth and a different scene laid out in front of us. We attempt time and time again to rise above the caress of alcohol and the distorted sense of awareness which has taken over our collective psyche, but the effort brings only heartache, despair, and further dissolving of capacities. The relaxation after day to day business has become a fraction of the escape it once was. This editor has become the only saving throw versus both the past and the present -- difficulties which in the past were easily overcome, and now the slightest step aside from our needs is traumatic. Each waking moment is filled with thoughts, nightmares, dreams, and recollections of who we were and who we have become, and the contrast is more stark than the desert sun upon snow. The falling, the rope, the air, and the blood have become defining segments of the disjointed reality within which we spin. We are so far distanced from the light and hopeful feelings of the past that the shimmering and glaring positive direction we once enjoyed is so far gone that the black has become comfortable. Hmm. The black. Perhaps we should refer to such as the familiar. After these past years of falling down the same hill, the blackness is now the norm. We sit here day after miserable day and attempt to carve the feelings from our heart and display them for all to see and the typical result is nothingness. Just fucking nothing. The lady lies; the mirror does not So here we sit for the thousandth time in a futile attempt to describe both what we see and what we feel. Why? We do not know. Do we continue? Do we manufacture the cards and push forth? Or do we sit and wallow as always? Again, we simply do not know. We have direction but no direction. Does that make sense? Perhaps a more fitting description would be the direction we feel versus the direction we need. There is no answer. The only certainty now is the distance we have traveled to work and slave over this obsession throughout the past many years. We are very far from there, and yet still a world away from any realization. Yes, everything crashed and exploded during the summer of fifteen, but since then we should have been able to do something. Any fucking thing. We are just too far away. The distance has become too great to travel. Many hours have been spent here at this infernal editor in hopes of finding some inspiration which will grab us and launch this project (read: insanity) up and out of the doldrums and into a space we can comfortably inhabit and work through. We are glued to this chair staring at Julianne's hair on the other monitor as we try to find the words. Her sharp shoulders look back at us asking the simple task of description. Just as all of the other examples which have strolled by, she awaits justification and recognition. There is none of that right now. The toughness of seeing her there on the screen, idly standing and awaiting the shutter release, is becoming what shapes our thoughts, feelings, and the words which fly off our fingers. She is the reason for ambition within this damaged and downward world. There is nothing else which has the capability to propel us up and out of the dirt. On top of that, there are very disturbing historical parallels which are working inside us as she relates to so many uncomfortable and toilsome situations. Those times were the cause of pain which still remains, and the knowledge of the past pushes us to keep everything close. We are beginning to do that now. The organizational difficulties which the staff mentioned above are in the works and are directly coupled to our increasing need to hide all of this from the outside -- from 'them'. This is not a healthy solution by any means, however one which has become necessary for our survival. Ugh to the nth. Julianne has stood there looking back at us across the chasm and we feel the need so greatly that there is no return trip. None. Fuck. Stretching our limits This bullshit has gone on for so long that we are now losing the compulsion and heading in the direction of trouble unlike we have ever felt. Images are one thing, but seeing this art in person has become crippling -- and we mean to say paralyzing. The feeling is to run straight to this editor and type, along with alcohol consumption -- just drowning into the obsession and dreaming of an end which is extremely unlikely. The Raven brought us so much hope for the future that the current situation without Her is the opposite. We are still dropping from that terrible event not long ago, and the loss is still fresh. Her demeanor toward us defined what could and should be, but now we have nothing save for a mass of images and disjointed visions of need. Julianne's unique look is rivaled only by that of the Raven. We cannot put this woman on the page with any effectiveness other than throwing appropriate images of her between the text. Her beauty, as interrupted by our sordid and desperate words. She hangs there mid-page and looks out with young eyes and sees a world we can no longer fit within. We are slowly being reduced to frailty and despondency while she is on the rise. Of course, she is not at fault for a damned thing. We do not know her, nor her us. All we have is data. Even as we type these words, they are heading out into a world which is much more likely to be familiar with her, yet still over here in the gutter we reside with the look of a dead creature sliding down a muddy slope and into the detritus -- the remains of what could have been. Simply put, we are feeling the distance as it becomes too great to bear. There may be an end for us, but there is no end to her beauty The pain which stabs at us at every sight is nearly unbearable, and to look upon Julianne brings a similar knife. [Yes, nearly every image displayed here is monochrome for good reason -- they need to be viewed on an even playing field. Put another way, all of these beautiful creatures of the world must be equal from at least one standpoint. Julianne's gorgeous poses need not show full color in order to be as incredible as they are. She is the reason, not the variety or range of hues.] There is no escaping the nature of these feelings, no matter whether we sit in front of the editor with her staring back nor when a similar woman appears nearby. The blade is in us, constantly -- it has become a part of everyday life. This is the fault of no one but ourselves. Movement in any direction has become truncated and so arduous that we function almost entirely for the need and hope for a change. We have little hope of anything, in fact, because of a lack of decent reason. Others may comment that looking outward and away from things which bring so much heartache are the best paths. They automatically push for such a thing due to years of programming toward the positive. For us, there are only the briefest of seconds when the light becomes viewable. Quickly, it is gone, and replaced by the black of our unending an unrelenting desire. Last year's adventure to the north was a long break from editing, and a period which turned from relaxation to pain. We missed the editor, and of course we took mental and physical notes along the way for future material, but even at the very last moment we dropped -- despite ten days of enjoyment. Directly in front of us while exiting the ship there was a tipsy and silly woman who decided to drink the morning of disembarkation and her resulting behavior was quite funny. She walked along the path to the exit, mimosa in hand, and looked unreal. Tall, well-dressed, and displaying the cut lines with which we are intimately familiar. As we followed along with the others leaving the vessel, she stood out like a god among insects. All at once we fell down that well-known hill and the cuts began. Along the ride home we felt as if we had been sucking on ether for weeks. The need did not stop, as we were powerless against it. We remain as such. Always. Julianne and her incredible hair Expect a future of this, and much more than one might believe possible. Unfortunately, there does not seem to be any other direction -- no turns, no switches, nor any other type of change. Unless we step into some type of fucking miracle in the coming months, this drop shall continue unimpeded. We are accustomed enough to weather the fucking shit for the time being. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Fuck it all anyway. If we were truly born to feel this way, the continuation of everything as it now stands will be the goddamned status quo. Forever? What is that?No matter... one day soon we shall be in the ground with all of our misplaced needs, deviant desires, and degraded hope. The decay has begun and we slide downward into the pit in earnest."
Julianne and the Distance
Mature content No. 23 Published February 26th, 2016 6:22am pst read ( words) Past entries
"Each day brings a new depth and a different scene laid out in front of us. We attempt time and time again to rise above the caress of alcohol and the distorted sense of awareness which has taken over our collective psyche, but the effort brings only heartache, despair, and further dissolving of capacities. The relaxation after day to day business has become a fraction of the escape it once was. This editor has become the only saving throw versus both the past and the present -- difficulties which in the past were easily overcome, and now the slightest step aside from our needs is traumatic. Each waking moment is filled with thoughts, nightmares, dreams, and recollections of who we were and who we have become, and the contrast is more stark than the desert sun upon snow. The falling, the rope, the air, and the blood have become defining segments of the disjointed reality within which we spin. We are so far distanced from the light and hopeful feelings of the past that the shimmering and glaring positive direction we once enjoyed is so far gone that the black has become comfortable. Hmm. The black. Perhaps we should refer to such as the familiar. After these past years of falling down the same hill, the blackness is now the norm. We sit here day after miserable day and attempt to carve the feelings from our heart and display them for all to see and the typical result is nothingness. Just fucking nothing.
The lady lies; the mirror does not
So here we sit for the thousandth time in a futile attempt to describe both what we see and what we feel. Why? We do not know. Do we continue? Do we manufacture the cards and push forth? Or do we sit and wallow as always? Again, we simply do not know. We have direction but no direction. Does that make sense? Perhaps a more fitting description would be the direction we feel versus the direction we need. There is no answer. The only certainty now is the distance we have traveled to work and slave over this obsession throughout the past many years. We are very far from there, and yet still a world away from any realization. Yes, everything crashed and exploded during the summer of fifteen, but since then we should have been able to do something. Any fucking thing. We are just too far away. The distance has become too great to travel. Many hours have been spent here at this infernal editor in hopes of finding some inspiration which will grab us and launch this project (read: insanity) up and out of the doldrums and into a space we can comfortably inhabit and work through. We are glued to this chair staring at Julianne's hair on the other monitor as we try to find the words. Her sharp shoulders look back at us asking the simple task of description. Just as all of the other examples which have strolled by, she awaits justification and recognition. There is none of that right now. The toughness of seeing her there on the screen, idly standing and awaiting the shutter release, is becoming what shapes our thoughts, feelings, and the words which fly off our fingers. She is the reason for ambition within this damaged and downward world. There is nothing else which has the capability to propel us up and out of the dirt. On top of that, there are very disturbing historical parallels which are working inside us as she relates to so many uncomfortable and toilsome situations. Those times were the cause of pain which still remains, and the knowledge of the past pushes us to keep everything close. We are beginning to do that now. The organizational difficulties which the staff mentioned above are in the works and are directly coupled to our increasing need to hide all of this from the outside -- from 'them'. This is not a healthy solution by any means, however one which has become necessary for our survival. Ugh to the nth. Julianne has stood there looking back at us across the chasm and we feel the need so greatly that there is no return trip. None. Fuck.
Stretching our limits
This bullshit has gone on for so long that we are now losing the compulsion and heading in the direction of trouble unlike we have ever felt. Images are one thing, but seeing this art in person has become crippling -- and we mean to say paralyzing. The feeling is to run straight to this editor and type, along with alcohol consumption -- just drowning into the obsession and dreaming of an end which is extremely unlikely. The Raven brought us so much hope for the future that the current situation without Her is the opposite. We are still dropping from that terrible event not long ago, and the loss is still fresh. Her demeanor toward us defined what could and should be, but now we have nothing save for a mass of images and disjointed visions of need. Julianne's unique look is rivaled only by that of the Raven. We cannot put this woman on the page with any effectiveness other than throwing appropriate images of her between the text. Her beauty, as interrupted by our sordid and desperate words. She hangs there mid-page and looks out with young eyes and sees a world we can no longer fit within. We are slowly being reduced to frailty and despondency while she is on the rise. Of course, she is not at fault for a damned thing. We do not know her, nor her us. All we have is data. Even as we type these words, they are heading out into a world which is much more likely to be familiar with her, yet still over here in the gutter we reside with the look of a dead creature sliding down a muddy slope and into the detritus -- the remains of what could have been. Simply put, we are feeling the distance as it becomes too great to bear.
There may be an end for us, but there is no end to her beauty
The pain which stabs at us at every sight is nearly unbearable, and to look upon Julianne brings a similar knife. [Yes, nearly every image displayed here is monochrome for good reason -- they need to be viewed on an even playing field. Put another way, all of these beautiful creatures of the world must be equal from at least one standpoint. Julianne's gorgeous poses need not show full color in order to be as incredible as they are. She is the reason, not the variety or range of hues.] There is no escaping the nature of these feelings, no matter whether we sit in front of the editor with her staring back nor when a similar woman appears nearby. The blade is in us, constantly -- it has become a part of everyday life. This is the fault of no one but ourselves. Movement in any direction has become truncated and so arduous that we function almost entirely for the need and hope for a change. We have little hope of anything, in fact, because of a lack of decent reason. Others may comment that looking outward and away from things which bring so much heartache are the best paths. They automatically push for such a thing due to years of programming toward the positive. For us, there are only the briefest of seconds when the light becomes viewable. Quickly, it is gone, and replaced by the black of our unending an unrelenting desire. Last year's adventure to the north was a long break from editing, and a period which turned from relaxation to pain. We missed the editor, and of course we took mental and physical notes along the way for future material, but even at the very last moment we dropped -- despite ten days of enjoyment. Directly in front of us while exiting the ship there was a tipsy and silly woman who decided to drink the morning of disembarkation and her resulting behavior was quite funny. She walked along the path to the exit, mimosa in hand, and looked unreal. Tall, well-dressed, and displaying the cut lines with which we are intimately familiar. As we followed along with the others leaving the vessel, she stood out like a god among insects. All at once we fell down that well-known hill and the cuts began. Along the ride home we felt as if we had been sucking on ether for weeks. The need did not stop, as we were powerless against it. We remain as such. Always.
Julianne and her incredible hair
Expect a future of this, and much more than one might believe possible. Unfortunately, there does not seem to be any other direction -- no turns, no switches, nor any other type of change. Unless we step into some type of fucking miracle in the coming months, this drop shall continue unimpeded. We are accustomed enough to weather the fucking shit for the time being. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Fuck it all anyway. If we were truly born to feel this way, the continuation of everything as it now stands will be the goddamned status quo. Forever? What is that?No matter... one day soon we shall be in the ground with all of our misplaced needs, deviant desires, and degraded hope. The decay has begun and we slide downward into the pit in earnest."
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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