truelightseeker

In order to celebrate the christmas holidays I recite to you a poem written by Henry Rollins in his book One from None. Last night I was in the kitchen This roach runs by me heading for the stove I nailed it with my index finger, kocked part of its guts out The roach kept crawling, dragging its guts behind I pushed it back so it couldn't get away The rear legs gave out, it kept crawling The guts started to pick up dirt and bits of food It still kept going with all the new weight I wondered if I would be able to keep on crawling With my guts hanging out of me like that I would have done something lame like gone into shock and died

I just wrote a text about friends and how people are fucked, because they don't want to talk about emotions, because they think it is uncomfortable. I put a lot of my own emotions into it and then accidentally I pressed some combination with CTRL and the Tab closed and it was all done for, except the headline. This is why I prefer pen and paper, it is not erasable, it is not rewritable, even crossed out it is still there. Well, what now? I guess I will use this journal as some kind of open-world diary. Telling people what I think and feel and feeling better, because I show it to people who are not so uptight. They are afraid, they are broke