If you see me post, I'm awake. If you don't see me post, then I'm probably still awake. If I say "I'm going to go to sleep" I'm lying. I'm Hannibal Lecter (But not really), 18, England. I post stuff. I think I'm far enough into my blog for you to be able to look around and see if you like, or dislike, the things I post. Feel free to follow me, but it's okay if you don't, I'd rather my follower count to be lower. Followers are too mainstream for me ;) Also, be sure to check out my art work before you leave (The link should be down there somewhere)!
I want to live on a mountain,
To breathe the clean air,
To be alone,
To have some peace,
To have a better view of the world.
funny text posts arent my
Puns like that could get you in
give it a
Yeah I think the joke might be falling
This would probably be a lot funnier if I could read sheet music
It’s no one else’s fault that you aren’t that
To some of us it just comes
I’m sad that others can’t
Woah you guys slow down I’m laughing too hard I need to take a
I’m a guitarist, can you tab all these jokes out for me?
It puzzles me when people reblog the same post of theirs, on the same blog, five minutes after they post it (and every five minutes following that).
I understand that sometimes people reblog themselves to “express how they feel” again but (1) don’t you get the ‘expressing’ done by the act of writing out the post? and (2) why do you need to reinforce how you feel so frequently? It’s like saying “hey guys I’m sad” and five minutes later “hey guys I’m still sad” and five minutes after that “omg guys I’m still sad pls”. Apologies for seeming inconsiderate but the truth of the matter is that I care a little less every time.
Or otherwise when it’s a ‘selfie’ or ‘selca’ they just keep reblogging it to reply to one measly comment with “aww ty” or they just reblog it for the sake of it reappearing on others’ dashboards. Are people really that conceited that they need more notes to validate their popularity or that people care about them or admire them or like them? Relax, I’m not going to forget what you look like if you suddenly stopped bringing those photos back up every time I refresh my dashboard. I get it— you’re beautiful. But you get a little duller every time you toss your photos around to gather more notes. (Your photos are not as shiny as they used to be.)
Really! I get it some logical part of this. I really do. Sometimes you just want your favourite pieces to resurface, right? Fair. But when it’s every few minutes? Every hour? Every day? I SAY you people should reflect on yourselves and reconsider how self-absorbed you claim not to be.
Why am I alive in my head and why are you not? Why don’t I have your consciousness in my head, but, rather, have mine instead? I’d like to have your thoughts in me.
I’m so afraid that I don’t have the energy nature wants, that this great tremor’ll pass me by. It’s loud in my mind, every sound, every movement, and I notice the Earth beneath my soles and my thoughts resonate with it but my body is as still and lifeless as everything I’ve ever made.
You have this great piece of art, this literary masterpiece, this beautiful song somewhere in your mind and in your bones but you’re just waiting for a gust of wind or an earthquake to help you pull it out of yourself and once you do, you think, you’ll have all you need to keep doing it, so you can be seen or heard or thought of through what you do, in everything you do, from then on.
I’m so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so sad.
And yet so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so happy.
What’s the point in feeling anything at all?
It is troublesome to be in the constantly alternating state of slipping in and out of sleep, especially when I am writing. Upon shaking myself awake again, I often find my page surrounded with words I never even considered to write. They are strange. They are spelt perfectly under the faint lines of ink but have absolutely no logical meaning when put back-to-back.
My hands do not move at the command of my brain. The words that are lightly scrawled are not my own even if they come from my pen in my hand. I cannot fight it. I cannot fight it. My state of wakefulness only lasts as long as it takes for me to read the unfamiliar handwriting. And then I am gone again.
It cuts me off mid-thought. This monster, that is. Stop interfering the words stringed together in my head with your sharpened claws and bloodied teeth. I can’t think. I can’t fight. I guess I haven’t a choice but let it win. When this episode passes, I will reclaim my right to think again. But until then, I suppose I will slay this filthy little mongrel, in my dreams. I just hope its cruel magic does not break through my spell barrier.
Die. Release my suffocating thoughts from your grasp.