svo hljótt

i've decided that i want to learn swedish and icelandic, then i want to travel to the ends of the earth and dream my life away, to the sounds of jeniferever, immanu el, sigur ros, ef, and other lovely and ethereal echoes of nature. i just want to drown in the escape of conversation, in the warmth of my room, recluselike and content. i just want to get out of high school and travel, to japan, to sweden, to england, to iceland, to germany. every day melbourne seems more and more monotonous as its familiarity starts to choke me. i need air, i need to breathe. fuck.

tonight we dance, and fade all so quietly away

its almost ridiculous the myriad of memories that are evoked from random word documents: i was searching for a single piece of writing to reuse, and in the process of searching for it, came across hundreds of lyrics; poems; realisations; vents; diary entries. all of these paved the way for moments of heartbreak, confession, rebellion, vulnerability from back to year seven. i'd honestly forgotten about so much of .. my life from before last year. its somewhat unsettling. i don't know how i'd forgotten about all of this. i mean, its my life. yet lately its been feeling like i didn't exist before year ten, which is stupid in itself.

i'm sitting here, remembering who i used to be. its strange, to say the least. everything that made me who i am today, i think i'd just pushed aside and disregarded. i hate that i'm turning my back on even myself.

i think i'm in too deep
get out get out get out

...in valleys

i'm wondering to what extent people will say lovely things, as to avoid hurting your feelings. it seems slightly excessive the amounts of praise i receive from some people, and it seems ill deserved. i don't really appreciate half-hearted compliments when they're only verbalised in the first place as pale reassurance. it's like i'm dodging my separate audiences, so i can hide behind the facade of words. words they'll never see, because nothing is private anymore and i'm constantly running from confrontation.


but at night you’re dancing through the pain, even when you’re the only one. no rose, no sky as full of beauty as the girl who dies but rises with every morning’s sun,
alone.
have heart write pure poetry. we should study that in literature, eh

this is panic. this is failure.

i'm on my knees
i'm home
i fall on my face
i fall.


all i want right now are people that are like me; that have similar likes and hobbies. i want to fucking talk music and tv shows and ikuta toma and fashion. i want to laze around at home and have people keeping me company that will 'get' the things i like. i'm sick of being different to everyone else to the extent of being lonely. lately all i've been confined to conversing about 'safe' subjects that bore me to death. it's not too much to ask, is it? no one i speak to these days even knows or appreciates who/what francis dolarhyde/osaka-ben/immanu el/dylan moran/miyavi/bukowski/kleptomania/she spits macabre is/are. it irks me so, to observe people talking shit like they know everything, like they've done this scene a hundred times over. i detest the lack of realism nowadays; everyone's pretending to be someone they're not, conforming to standards accepted by the masses and in the process, disposing of everything they once stood for. everything is just a fucking title these days, like a badge to wear. nothing means anything anymore. it used to be 'emo' then 'scene' and now its 'indie'. i'm sick of being reduced to a fucking stereotype, to a word that has lost any kind of concrete meaning, twisted and weakened from its original definition to nothing more than some kind of petty insult. i don't give a fuck about anyone else. they're all the same, and i can't talk to anyone.

/i need you more than i.

ridiculously happy.


that is all.