questions

11.03.01back& forth
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THINK.
i've decided: i'm going to stop making wishes. i feel like i'm in third grade again -wait. is that such a bad feeling? i feel as if all my writings are juvenile anyways. i'm going to set these 'wishes' down and make them goals. somehow, wishes seem like fairytales. hm. here's an excerpt from boundless:

continued with first roll. took pictures in the early morning. midday. early afternoon. backyard garden steps. entrances. a few of me (that�s a first). very interesting. the light was beautiful in the back gardens. it�s a maze of miracles (feels like a fairytale there).

look at the irony in this question: is it bad to second-guess yourself?...haha this amuses me. just like on a spanish message board the subject read 'como se dice...?' and the question was what does 'como se dice...' mean? :p. speaking of which, if anyone knows of a spanish-spanish dictionary, PLEASE let me know.

right now my feelings are unsure of what they're feeling. does every part of me have to be defined? (these words by stacy resound through the breatheless air in my head). this is something i wrote when i thought i knew exactly what i was feeling:
devastated deflated
hurt angry upset
third grade adjectives describe this feeling
rage turns to desperation.
lump in my throat standing still wanting to cry but cant
when the end of your toils is not
realized
when there is no cause for the injustice
it induces these feelings
pain bleeds from shaking fingers as i type this
it sounds so juvenile
but it's a loss
of work, of time, of effort
faint rememberances of captured images
vignettes written about times, places
lost in a world where film developers pirate hope
nature can't handle me (now)
stays quiet when
(in my head)
the invectives i hurl are silenced by reason
and this turns to analytical rationalizations
quickly enveloped in torture again
like third grade
when the sobbing about how its not fair
is quieted by the lapse of tears; cant cry anymore.
the older we get the more complicated it gets
because i haven't even begun to cry
and no one's here to quiet these nonexistent tears
and when they come
...i'm trying to put this in perspective
but its only the beginning�

in 8th grade seb told me something. a professor gives his physcology students their final exam. it asks the students one question: why?. a few minutes pass; some are still staring at the exam, deep in thought, many are hastily grabbing paper and writing utensils, ready to scribble everything down, but one is walking out of the room. the question asked why? and this one's answer was..... why not?


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