I tried writing poetry today (also known as “lyrics“), but it fucking wouldn’t work. I don’t have it in me at this moment. I have the potential of making a great instrumental song, but the lyrics? No, not today. Probably too much…no, I won’t say that. I won’t say I feel too shitty, because you can never feel too shitty for art. Art is supposedly better the crappier off you are. And I’m nowhere near a masterpiece, despite feeling pretty bad now. And I don’t have the courage to say it out loud. Or write it directly to someone. Therefore, I blog.
Will there in the future be so that pupils at school will have to read through blog posters blog posts? That would be something, wouldn’t it? But why not? If it’s a bit factual or lyrical anyways. Not just “outfit of the day”. That would be more for the cultural studies. It would be grand to be one of those they had to read. I hope it could be me. Don’t think so, but I still hope. I should really get around to writing that fucking book. No idea what it should be about though. It will be non-fiction. As in neither science fiction, nor past fiction. Guess the term should be something like…well, non-fiction. But that’s already coined for factual texts.
So I sit here, listening to the same song without any meaning, just because it’s soothing. Comforting even, perhaps. It has nothing to do with my mood. The lyrics are about some party. I really don’t care. The melody is just…calm. Calm and flowing. And then I don’t have to find a new song and a new band and a new album and a new genre all the time. It just is there. It can keep playing all night for what I care. Might change it eventually. Will not be satisfied with changing it, but felt it was what was expected of me. Probably. I was just sitting here in peace and quiet before I put it on.
Why must it be illegal to kill your parents, when they are probably the ones who deserves it the most?
Really. Why? If I had just gotten rid of them, many of my current problems would be solved. But sadly, it is illegal. To just be free from them…oh, the joy. If I was a child of divorce, maybe it would be easy to sneak away from them without anyone noticing. But I’m not. And they both seems to want me to stay, while saying they don’t want me to stay. They want to control whether my room is clean or not, whether it is an oral agreement on a job or if I have every single details in writing, whether I can be up in the middle of the night, whether I am to breathe or not… I’m so tired of it. The hand that feeds is rarely the hand you long for the most. You want to be free. Human is free by nature. It is not by society.
I want to be on my own. Face all my problems myself. Fuck you dad, I’m not going to ask you for money if I ever get into trouble. I never thought I would. You just fucking assume it. Just like you fucking assumed I wanted your help to move out in the first place. Why the hell am I not allowed to do things and manage things and work things out on my own when there are so many thousand people out there which are allowed this pleasure? Why can I not try to see if I am smart enough, and rather crash and burn than be held back by somebody else? Isn’t it better to learn from your own mistakes, than make far worse ones to get to the point where you want to be? I even have the means to manage if, by any chance, my plan should fail to succeed. I know how to cope. Why the hell can’t I show you?
I’ve been laughed at for ten years now. At least. Ten years of them laughing at the idea of me moving out. Not because of the idea in itself most of the time, but because they think I won’t be able to do anything when I’m on my own. They don’t realize that the reason I usually don’t do things, is because it is not my place, my things or my order. I thereby feel scared as shit to do anything about it. For a long time, I hated cooking food because I was afraid I was using products they had planned to use for dinner or something else. And I was afraid of ruining their frying pan or something. Or the fear of accidentally burning the whole house down. Instead of being comforted that none of these things would happen, they laughed at how little I was cooking and how all I would ever make when I moved out was boiled noodle soup and microwave pizza. It won’t be.
So, really, why must it be illegal to kill your parents, when they are probably the ones that deserves it the most?