Pyro
Bluelighter
I remember sitting on the grass out in front of the church. I remember thinking about how the stories I've heard so many times over and over again were probably true, but I didn't want to pay attention anymore. It'd been forced on me my entire life and now I was just begining to think for myself.
No, this isn't about my childhood growing up as the son of a preacher.
I remember sitting on the grass one day with a head full of 4 hits of acid, two pills of strong ecstasy, a bit of weed and some nitrus -- watching life unfold. I thought back to what most people say about drugs, that they feel good and get you fucked up. And I wasn't feeling either of these things. I started disapproving of anyone who used drugs for reasons other than mine. I thought my thinking, experiencing, and shmantic purposes were the only 'good' way to do drugs. Anyone who did anything else was wrong.
No, this isn't about what I used to feel about drug use.
I remember sitting with this girl... I remember looking at her and seeing a look in her eyes that caught my attention. I remember somehow ending up going into her friend's bedroom and then her locking the door behind her and turning off the lights. Then the way it felt when she touched me in the complete darkness and made my skin tingle. Then the way it felt when she put her hands on my face and pulled me to her lips. I remember ... my first time ever having sex (and ever being fucked).
No, this isn't about sex.
I remember sitting in my room one night and discovering Nine Inch Nails. I remember listening to Pretty Hate Machine and thinking "holy god... this is the best music I've ever listened to". I remember being a non-shalaunt fan. Never putting up any pictures on my wall, and only putting key words on my backpack... no one would notice unless they were a fan too. I remember so many nights when putting on NIN and listening to Trent Reznor wisper "I still recall the taste of your tears, echoing your voice just like the ringing in my ears. My favoite dreams of you still wash ashore -- scraping through my head until I don't wanna sleep anymore" and finding comfort in these lines. Wether they were about death or not was not the point. The beauty of art is that it means different things to everyone. To me these words were about my grandma, who died right as I was 12. Hard time to deal with that... Trent Reznor has brought me through times I would never have been able to go through on my own.
No, this isn't about music and it's impact.
I remember sitting down one day and realizing that I loved writing. I enjoyed writing. Then a few years later writing became the tool I used to save myself from slipping. It released me. I found that I could totally reverse my insomnia by writing before I went to sleep. Not diary writing bullshit, but writing like I've never seen anyone else write. I of course now know that it's not original style, but that's not the point. Sitting in my room, no lights, just the moon shining through the window and me with paper and pen. Or how throughout the entirity of highschool I wrote every essay no more than three days before the due date. Even the 20 page essay. Never got less than a 90 on an essay or written assignment -- laughing to myself as the teacher held my paper up as 'a good example as to why writing ahead of time creates a good paper'. And I realized that writing made me feel good
.
.
yesterday I did a lot of thinking. A lot more than usual. And I came to the same conclusion I usually do -- which is "fuck it". Just fuck all the feelings I have, because they're not normal. Fuck all the anxiety. Fuck all the darkness cause I'm soo fucking tired of that. Fuck happiness and goodness because those are the people that seem to get screwed the most. Fuck 'society' and everything it holds up to me and says (no matter how hard I work) 'work a little harder and you can have the American Dream... just a little harder". I thought about buying a handgun and lodging a bullet inside my head. Studying the brain so I know exactly where to shoot, so I can do it with one shot. 57 magnum, so it blows a big fucking hole... Then I think, why do I think like this? I know a lot of people do, and that I'm not alone, but that isn't any comfort. My life is great, happiness should abound. Maybe it's what I think it is, and it's just the loneliness eating away at me and that empty space becoming a little bigger.
And the only way I can make it all go away?
And the only way I can have a little fun and do thinking BEYOND the stereotypical darkness?
Church
Chemical
Female
Music
Art
Pyro
------------------
Anyone else seem like they're 'growing up' with bluelight?
[This message has been edited by Pyro (edited 10 July 2000).]
No, this isn't about my childhood growing up as the son of a preacher.
I remember sitting on the grass one day with a head full of 4 hits of acid, two pills of strong ecstasy, a bit of weed and some nitrus -- watching life unfold. I thought back to what most people say about drugs, that they feel good and get you fucked up. And I wasn't feeling either of these things. I started disapproving of anyone who used drugs for reasons other than mine. I thought my thinking, experiencing, and shmantic purposes were the only 'good' way to do drugs. Anyone who did anything else was wrong.
No, this isn't about what I used to feel about drug use.
I remember sitting with this girl... I remember looking at her and seeing a look in her eyes that caught my attention. I remember somehow ending up going into her friend's bedroom and then her locking the door behind her and turning off the lights. Then the way it felt when she touched me in the complete darkness and made my skin tingle. Then the way it felt when she put her hands on my face and pulled me to her lips. I remember ... my first time ever having sex (and ever being fucked).
No, this isn't about sex.
I remember sitting in my room one night and discovering Nine Inch Nails. I remember listening to Pretty Hate Machine and thinking "holy god... this is the best music I've ever listened to". I remember being a non-shalaunt fan. Never putting up any pictures on my wall, and only putting key words on my backpack... no one would notice unless they were a fan too. I remember so many nights when putting on NIN and listening to Trent Reznor wisper "I still recall the taste of your tears, echoing your voice just like the ringing in my ears. My favoite dreams of you still wash ashore -- scraping through my head until I don't wanna sleep anymore" and finding comfort in these lines. Wether they were about death or not was not the point. The beauty of art is that it means different things to everyone. To me these words were about my grandma, who died right as I was 12. Hard time to deal with that... Trent Reznor has brought me through times I would never have been able to go through on my own.
No, this isn't about music and it's impact.
I remember sitting down one day and realizing that I loved writing. I enjoyed writing. Then a few years later writing became the tool I used to save myself from slipping. It released me. I found that I could totally reverse my insomnia by writing before I went to sleep. Not diary writing bullshit, but writing like I've never seen anyone else write. I of course now know that it's not original style, but that's not the point. Sitting in my room, no lights, just the moon shining through the window and me with paper and pen. Or how throughout the entirity of highschool I wrote every essay no more than three days before the due date. Even the 20 page essay. Never got less than a 90 on an essay or written assignment -- laughing to myself as the teacher held my paper up as 'a good example as to why writing ahead of time creates a good paper'. And I realized that writing made me feel good
.
.
yesterday I did a lot of thinking. A lot more than usual. And I came to the same conclusion I usually do -- which is "fuck it". Just fuck all the feelings I have, because they're not normal. Fuck all the anxiety. Fuck all the darkness cause I'm soo fucking tired of that. Fuck happiness and goodness because those are the people that seem to get screwed the most. Fuck 'society' and everything it holds up to me and says (no matter how hard I work) 'work a little harder and you can have the American Dream... just a little harder". I thought about buying a handgun and lodging a bullet inside my head. Studying the brain so I know exactly where to shoot, so I can do it with one shot. 57 magnum, so it blows a big fucking hole... Then I think, why do I think like this? I know a lot of people do, and that I'm not alone, but that isn't any comfort. My life is great, happiness should abound. Maybe it's what I think it is, and it's just the loneliness eating away at me and that empty space becoming a little bigger.
And the only way I can make it all go away?
And the only way I can have a little fun and do thinking BEYOND the stereotypical darkness?
Church
Chemical
Female
Music
Art
Pyro
------------------
Anyone else seem like they're 'growing up' with bluelight?
[This message has been edited by Pyro (edited 10 July 2000).]
