springdevilhome

[springdevilhome]

A Thought Experiment For Hurt

This I wrote on August 13th, 2024.

In 2023, I'd believed that my father and I could not exist together on earth. One of us had to leave, I was convinced. Because back then, I believed that the violation that comes with abuse taints the self so deeply that the abuser needs to be removed, as well as all the tarnished portions. Like torching down a diseased portion of the farm along with a begrudging nod for the good leaves that would also burn up alongside it. That is what I felt back then. Does it still apply, now on New Year's in 2025? No, but I still think what I felt back should be recorded like so. For the future. For memory.

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A character who hated somebody so much that they believed that in order for them to keep on living,

they had to kill that person. No new input from, no new scenes including them headed for an already riddled amalgam of memory. But the character thinks, and finds - that they cannot kill that person and live with it, despite it all. So they find a foolproof plan - they design an accident, so that anyone, should they come across the scene, would think that the death was just a horrible mishap. And then, they think to erase their memory. They acquire someone, perhaps an object, a miracle, anything, to rid them of their memory after killing their dearly despised. The moment that the first abuse happened, their mind and self had already been poisoned. Perhaps they question if they can truly be whole without this monster gnawing at them their whole life. Does it really have to do with the living breathing nemesis anymore? Or has it gone beyond even flesh? An enmity so rotten it's rooted in your self. They don't know how to cast it out. So they think, - that they will have to quell a part of themself, too. Burning the weeds but also a part of the farm. It will end with a scorching. They're afraid, so afraid. It's the fear that makes them only surer that a partial mutual destruction would let them make it out alive in any way, shape, or form.

[springdevilhome]

A Singular Prayer For the Spherical

This I wrote on August 28th, 2024, at midnight.

Pain. For me, that word has become so routine when I try to press beyond the regular fabric of just existing. It goes hand in hand with the world 'violence.' Pain, pain, pain. I speak it. I hear it. I think it. I touch it, too. But didn't it get bizarre after a while? If pain threads through life so much, doesn't it become banal? What a fearful thought. If I become numb, if we become numb, we may stop shrieking in dolor, but we will also stop crying in memory. Our humanity would be weathered down. A fearful and wistful thought. But, then, I thought, there must be a destination for all of this pain. Or, at least, I wanted to believe that there was a linear path it trickled down.

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Why did I think that pain altogether would be circular?

Or round? Who knows what shape it would make when it's gathered all in one place? It could be spiked. It could be completely unaccommodating even as a unified shape and could spread out, like gunpowder. But I think I always wanted to imagine that - thought that I deserved to imagine at least this much, since I relented and let pain exist when it asked to be born in the first place - pain, when it increases over time, would form a sort of sphere or pool. I wanted to believe that... with violence so common and unspecial and all, generating pain beyond any simple measurement... all this pain had somewhere to go. That it would pile up somewhere, at least. In unison. Waiting for something. A stockpile, a hidden cache, a dragon's hoard... They all invite the notion of something happening in the future. A stockpile is something that waits for a moment. A moment to burst. Maybe I wanted to believe in retribution. Maybe I wanted to believe in an easy hope. That there might be some mass emancipation one day, and all we needed to do was just wait and bear it. That all this pain wasn't just for naught. That there might be a reason, however simple. That's why I thought pain altogether would be smooth, easy, like a sphere or a pool.

[springdevilhome]

Beautiful Girls

This I wrote on September 22nd, 2024.

I gifted it to a good friend for her birthday. It was the first time I gifted someone a piece of my writing for their birthday, but this path is not fearful to the point I refuse to brave it. It's nice. She inspired parts of the writing. And here it is.

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And the most beautiful girl you've ever seen walks past in your life.

What was it about these girls? I hated to just call them pretty. Pretty. Of course, they were also pretty. But you know - pretty seems too small of a word for them. Pretty is in youth. Pretty seems more temporal. So I think these beautiful girls, what they have, is something above just memento mori. Yeah, yeah, Shakespeare and all of these literary giants have broached the subject of beauty (or I think rather - prettiness) and how it swells the most in youth and then will be lost and they mourn it. And that's why it was poetic or whatever. Yeah, yeah.

But that's kind of different from what I feel. I do also feel the existential dread that comes inevitably with being a mortal being - it's common practice, don't you think? by now - but these girls they walk through you and they change you forever a bit, you know? They leave an impression on you that won't leave you should you even try to compel it out. And - why would you? It's like when autumn comes around and you feel that familiar cool breeze again and the punctual swelling of your heart - knocking on your brain again - says hey, the impression, she's still here alive. She's still there. But I go about my day-to-day life, toils, where it's easy to forget that to live requires some extra effort in thinking and reminiscing. But when something, anything beautiful comes by, like seeing the sun spilling out again after the longest nights of winter are over, you remember her. There is novelty in the return of the feeling of living, but it's also familiar. Because you've seen it before. A familiarity. You've seen it on her. Right? I mean, you know you're a human; you'll die. But you think the remembrance rather soothes you on your journey that will eventually end. That's what I mean when I say I hate to call them just pretty. I don't fear anything. Rather, since it's been happening steadily throughout my life, I am confident that I will find it again. The beautiful girl and what she instilled in me when she gutted me when I was on that street, or maybe her room, or maybe at school, or maybe just anywhere.

Oh, it sounds like I love them? Yeah, I guess you could say that, but to hell with chopping my life into tiny cubes to fit a romantic narrative. Focus on what I'm trying to say. I'm not the subject of this story.

Maybe it's kind of like - I don't know, hell - what those old guys in Greece called "muses," or whatever. The beautiful girls.

[springdevilhome]

Still Hope In Giving Up

This I wrote on October 28th, 2024. Mid-day.

I recall it was around the time I took my 6th leave in university. I despised how useless I felt, but my 10-year diseased brain screamed that it would only get worse if I don't give up now. But at the same time, I couldn't help but feel like I've deceived everyone, even myself. I was supposed to push through the semester. I wanted a dazzling return to academia. I wanted to prove myself. That I was worth investing in, like I was some stock. Hey, look, I'll take all of these credits at once. But halfway through the race, I turned back towards everyone I've loved or wanted to impress, showing that I wasn't leading the way running forward at all. I had been at a standstill. That's what it must have been. Seasonal Affective Disorder? Fuck, will that be enough? My brain's disease is not even new at this point. How to sate them all? - In truth, I didn't open up about it, and finally, I thought it would only make sense to draw trident lines on my wrist for show. They cannot see inside my brain, but they can see the red on my skin. And then, later, I took that damned leave. Really, after all this time, I think find it hard to believe that this battle might be lifelong. To shed an abyssal disbelief from myself. To stick my hand directly inside the uncomfortable spiritual orifices and yank and pull and prod - for years and years to come.

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There's still hope for me in giving up.

Giving up shines bright in front of me. "Giving Up," I call for it with its name. "Will you save me, once again?"

Giving Up is like a saint. Or so I feel, as I imagine myself being touched by its grace, trapped in an idea of my own solitary happiness. But Giving Up is, in reality, a very elusive thing. I don't dare even speak its name regularly. Because I despair that it won't be there when I need it. But Giving Up, when I offer enough to it, shows itself to me. [I'll take some of you,] says Giving Up. [But remember, "enough" is not a measure you take. It's not one I take, either. What's "enough" will show itself after you've held my hand in commitment.]

Strange, it is. That to Give Up requires also, commitment. And that's precisely the thing I want to escape from. I know that I won't find any true joy, you know, the big picture type ones, that last forever and are burned into your tree rungs as a person, yeah yeah, if I keep escaping like this. But it's too much to bear. The fear of having to pay Giving Up and lay down all possibilities of these big, true joys seems but a brief clenching shut of the eyes compared to the fear I have about what might happen should I not Give myself Up. So I need to make a choice. Even if it is stupid old me.

"I understand. So please," I cry. "Take my hand. No, my hand here - it's yours. Let me Give myself unto you."

[I guess even if it is a choice,] it muses, [I'm more like an embrace. I won't test you. Because the testing I've set down for you has been completed the moment you decided to commit to me. You've looped through all the self deprecation, the questioning, the weighing, I hope? No matter. Come to me.]

And I hug Giving Up and I know I've embraced it multiple times now. Its embrace isn't novel. But it's comforting. But there's so much of my soul that's left to me, now.

[An extra text from 24.10.29, 12 AM is added below.]

"What do you think about disappearing?

Sure. Sounds awesome!

Want some kind of base desire sort of recognition like this right now"

The desire for recognition seems base. Panting while debauched seems the same as melting into a comforting embrace. Cheap, cheap, cheap. That is how it all feels when self-loathing is easy practice.

[springdevilhome]

Short Texts on Love

I gathered some short texts I'd written on the subject of love here. There are 3 texts in total here.

I think about love a lot. The erotic and romantic kind of love. The love between lovers. Love can be sickening and horrid. Longing and desire can twist holes into your gut. And they're all so grotesque. I love that about love. It's violent, in the sense that violence is when a pre-existing frame gets shattered into pieces because a different party, or force, decides that enough is enough and drags you out of that safe bubble. When you desire for someone, you become a "force" in your own right. You become a presence that imposes on another person whether you like it or not.

There is nothing inherently bad about that. All loves are a form of collision. It's a part of nature. But I have to say, I'm very drawn to the ugliness of those collisions and I write about it often for that matter.

I think about people who can't let somebody step into their space. I think about how despite one's best efforts, one can be hit with love with such force, like a wanton meteor, that they start carrying a piece of somebody else inside them whether they like it or not. I think about the unfairness of love. How actually conditional it is despite everyone saying so many things about how true love is unconditional. Love doesn't get to that stage of mutual change and existence right away. Beginning stages, falling out stages, mutual pining stages... they all exist whether we like it or not, and we get to see ugly. And I want to explore the much larger visage of love I've come to know after I reached adulthood and found that the peddling of love - in media and culture and basically all types of conditioning since youth - is pretty fucking ersatz. I want the ugly. And I'll continue to write about obsession, falling outs, denial, long games, hunger, ... and so on and so forth.

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[YY.MM.DD - 21.08.28]

I love you because you're lazy.

because you don't leave the nest; you won't leave my hands if you don't reach your full potential. but I can't help but think that one day you will finally see what I am seeing, painfully: that you are an amalgamation of buds ready to burst into full bloom, a host of endless possibilities and timelines where I am not there. I know that I am selfish. but I say goodbye now, knowing that you will find that one book that interests you enough to start researching, to start building a world that is unknown to me.

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[23.04.13]

I will only consider dating you and taking you up on that offer after 2037, May 26th.

- Why that specific date...?

Because that is when I am fated to die, silly. If I can escape my fate, then only then will I convince myself to chase things that may be potentially destructive to me because of its uncertainty. If I can escape that gruesome fate, then I can really just - kiss you on those lips. Really. But until then, there is no chance.

- Really? None at all...?

Yes. None at all. And just so you know I'm serious - here is a picture of my younger brother. He is like - like... a piece of my soul for me. I only have a few pictures of him with me. That's a unique copy of a photo of him - I don't have any other pictures like it. See? None where he... plays with that toy like he is so serious with all his little might, there, frozen in time at 4 years old. So yeah. I'll... give you a piece of my soul for that day. On that day, if I don't die, then come find me. If at any point you give up on me, and have found another tangent on which you support your life, then mail that picture back to me - at this address. It is my old house that I never use, but still keep. I will check up on that mail every once in a year. Okay? Bye, [name]. We will meet again, someday, to either never see each other again afterwards, or to see each other for the rest of our lives.

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[23.08.30]

I'm a candle if I warm up I'll melt and I won't be sure if I can exist or hold up anymore after I lose form.

So I'm sure, I'm pretty sure, that always keeping one, two, and three steps away from everything and anything will keep things cool and my wax safe from malleability. Some say I can crack after a while but isn't cracking on my own terms preferable to melting by means I cannot control? Recently, though, the three steps seem to be failing me. I'm sure I kept a safe distance. But why does she drive an edge of heat into my wax without even touching me? She looks at me and I begin to know what it means to be lit on fire. And it's not as unpleasant as I'd imagined.

[springdevilhome]

Diary entry 23.04.09 - I Know Why Vincent Went to Those Mines

Diary entry from 9th April, 2023, early morning.

[CW sui ment]

I wrote a lot in my sketchbook and diary during this time. The pictures of the actual entries as I wrote them are below, and the transcription is under the pictures.

I thought a lot, a lot about Vincent Van Gogh as well as those who suffered from schizophrenia or acute degrees of depression and were met with a wall of despair who now hung in the halls of history as "the unfortunate." Vincent Van Gogh, Franz Kafka, Eduard Einstein, Zelda Fitzgerald, Virginia Woolf... These people came to my mind as a procession. I felt like I would become a part of that procession soon. I wanted to struggle against it, but the smell of death clings thick to someone who can't see an inch further from where they stand now. Today I suffer. Tomorrow... I can't see a tomorrow. I might suffer tomorrow. And whatever after that? ...I was living in that state of mind for months and months on end. And entries like these surfaced then.

I'm glad to say I've hit soil and dragged myself out of the Styxian waters of the Han river, which I know has many bodies inside drifitng in it after one last leap of faith - that at least the final cold won't be as painful as the choking humidity of life. I won't join them now. I'll live. And I'm alive.

But I think I can say that - there's something in it to record and archive these entries.

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Dude I get so so tired I hope it's not whatever I had going on in that 6-month period from Sep - March. I guess after all,

I don't want to live like this.

Even when I think of killing myself, almost every day.

What does an overdose feel like? Pain is just... pain. I think I could bear it.

But what keeps me from doing it a lot of times, has to be the fear - yes, fear. I know, it's crazy that I still feel it even though I swore it off with the whole "I can die if things go south" shtick - of whatever might happen should I botch it. And that every beautiful thing I knew, even fantasy-genre media, LOTR Rivendell, Jaden Vargen fanart, Monet's paintings, konpeito, Ghibli - will also be left behind if I die. And that's a little sad.

I know it's naive. Like, hell, it's not gonna be rainbows and sunshine if I decide to push on. It's a horrible world.

I know.

But I'm human. I hate that I am, but I'm human. I can't help it. I can't help but dream, have dreams, and keep them in the heart-shaped locket in my mind.

I wish I could be just like those hardened villains in comic books who have not indulged in any earthly pleasure for a few decades, because they know it will only make them "weak" and distract them from their goals, but...

Is it worth being alive at that point?

When you have to deny your own humanity?

When blood is just a mixture of cells, chemicals, and hemoglobin - and no longer something to be feared or loved?

It's a hard existence.

I want to rip out all of the days after April from my calendar, but my calendar is one of those ones that work for every year and every month because it's calculated like that.

So many things make me want to die but so many things tell me to live.

Sigh.

It's not like they pay my bills. Fuck off, dude...

But I still keep endeared objects and don't sell them. Because if I remove them one by one,

I am afraid that there will be nothing to give me that fleeting sense of longing just powerful enough to make me push through again when the time comes - again.

It's stupid to think that I won't be consumed by suicidal thoughts for another decade or so.

It's irresponsible to think that I will be fine.

I need things to live.

My willpower alone is too feeble. I don't even mean hoarding - I mean just keeping my copy of Animal Crossing on my Switch.

Man...

Marie Kondo, I may need you.

If I die, I want to go to whatever place Van Gogh is in so I can talk with him and smoke weed with him. And then show him how modern technologies have reshaped the world and love and the land upon which humanity walks and navigates - forever. And talk to him about Theo. And my little sister. Then have some tea.

Oh, Vincent. Will I make it? Even making it to 27 and then becoming a part of the 27 Club would be an honor.

I'm just 21 now. Crazy, isn't it? Vincent, I know why you went to those mines. You wanted more than anyone for God to be real.

I'm sorry.

[springdevilhome]

A Father Both Dead and Alive

This I wrote on September 17th, 2023.

It's one of the longer things I wrote, I think, considering that I wrote it in one go. I wrote this the night before my dad was due to arrive in Korea to live here permanently, the same country I live in. I hoped to never live with him again. But there are things simply out of my control in life. I thought about the concept of a "father." How it inspires so much violence. I read some of Kafka's letters to his father. I thought about the eldest daughters of many households who ruminated in some long, long rage which had sprouted so long ago that a "start" didn't even feel like something that existed for them, as the uncomfortable Monsoon heat of a hated father seeped into them. How fathers are like masts with a long, long shadow. In developmental psychology, a father figure is important in the child's growth. The absence of one would be detrimental. But, what about the children who grew up in homes with fathers who were better off being fully absent? My own father was present. Way too present for any good. I had wished, and still wish, for him to be gone from my life. And then that night, I thought about a father who was both dead and alive, simultaneously. And a speaker who comes to terms with this peculiar dichotomy.

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In my dreams I see a dead man. I see my father.

It is not that he is dead in the waking world. He breathes, and lives in the reality where I tread carefully with each passing moment in his vicinity. But in my dreams, he is a dead man. There is an overwhelming sense of a life already past its limit. A suspension that betrays the past. I know that that man is a dead man. I can easily sense that he operates in past tense. But, then why is it that my dreams don't reflect reality? Are they projecting a reality I wanted realizing so bad the prospect of death made a home in my psyche? I can't lie; I have thought about his death before. But not in an actively wishful way. Or, at least, in a way that hinges on murderous intent. I worry. Am I seeing the future or are my dreams just a projection of what "my" reality has already become in the inner realm of thoughts? He may as well be dead even in the waking world when I see him with my own two eyes. He doesn't mean anything to me. All memories worth clinging to have died down since many years ago. He is just an echo of those long gone moments of warmth. A dead fire. To me, at least. They say a father is like the sun which I'd guess means that a father's existence is important, and conversely, that his absence means some degree of suffering.

But that adage doesn't account for suns that now feel cold. When something like the sun dies and disappears, everyone will weep at the obvious loss. Mourning because the memories of warmth still cling onto us. A good memory that a period of crying over will eventually put to rest with a prayer wishing for the derparted's peace. But how do we mourn - no, *do* we mourn something still alive? - What does one do when the sun doesn't do its job anymore? We cannot even begin anew because the sun is still there; it's not gone. But it's been long since it lost its purpose as a sun. A world without a sun will at least try for another source of warmth to fill the void. But a world with an extant yet cold sun will sit in a standstill. It won't be long until the sun bears the hate of neglected lives tired of the cold. They'd wish for it to be just a remnant of the past. The cold sun doesn't get prayers of potential return anymore. The people are tired. And I, am tired as well.

I'm not saying that you should be ousted from your place in the world once you can't fulfill your purpose anymore. I'm not that cruel. But I think that there are better eventualities than one where any respect and affection you once inspired slowly turn to that of ennui, then eventually hate as you remain lodged in the same place while unapologetically and adamantly refusing to ever take up your mantle again. There is a period by which you can leave without any sour feelings sprouting yet after you discover you cannot fulfill your purpose anymore. An explanation would be best, but a sudden goodbye wouldn't be something the people wouldn't be able to overcome. Outrage will die down after people turn their focus to braving the new colds with a search for an alternative, new, source of warmth. But a situation in which the position is still taken and yet the one who promised to operate by the responsibility that comes with the position doesn't work anymore - that is truly much, much worse than if you had suddenly disappeared as soon as you lost your ability to carry out your purpose. The sour feelings have grown too large at this point to be capable of being uprooted. So, tell me, father, why do you still occupy that space as "father"? I can't seem to find any other explanation than that you're not bright. There are easier, far easier ways to simultaneously live and keep some past dignity you once had. I can't understand you. I can only understand that you're just an echo of a past that clings to life with blind stubbornness as all living things do when on the brink of being extinguished. You offer no other logic by which I can see and perceive you. It would kill me to think any other way. Father.

You know, if something is dead, then the statement that it is no longer alive should also be true. I thought that these two conditions couldn't stand without the other. But the clear and solid "truth" that these conditions cut into the fabric of reality starts to seem blurred now. The equating knife by which "dead" cuts into "not alive" seems to have become so dull. You still eat, breathe, and walk. I hear you in the hallway. I hear you in the bathroom. The draft will tease out coughs from you, as it does with every other living person. But you're also dead. At the same time. I'd hate to have my world come falling down because of this one inconsistency. I worked so hard to build a strong foundation for my mind once you started dawdling away from being my "father." I can conceptualize this colder world by rigid yet stable lines of order I've now written down. I can't say that this new development of you being both "alive" and "dead" at the same time doesn't throw me into a loop. But it'd be funny and rather unfortunate if the one who forced me to start building this rigid world of understanding became the one to destroy this world, wouldn't it not? I'll update the script. I'll have to accommodate. I'll take this moment of chaos as an opportunity to learn flexibility. I'd hate to further prolong my journey to maturity then independence. I'd hate to become an adult like you. I'll accommodate and learn how to walk among blurred lines now. All while you saunter off without any input like you always do. Alive or dead, you're useless. Father.

[springdevilhome]

You Can Live Without It

This I wrote on April 13th, 2023. (A few hours after the "interview" text.)

See, despite everything, I wanted to live. I wanted to have life hold me in its arms. I wanted to believe in it. So even after writing depressing things, I would strap my boots on to not crush but to tread. I wanted to feel some sort of ground supporting my weight from under. I wanted to write something that inspires hope even within me.

I'd recently seen that Mitski tweet that went something like, "if I gave up on being pretty, I wouldn't know how to live." I had run into quite a few of these types of posts, mainly written by women. My heart ached. This was no way to live. Everyone here would eventually sink into themselves and lose footing. And I thought, how horrible. I wish we would live. I wish we could cast these notions aside. These notions were put into our heads not with the intention of letting us live but with the intention of molding us into dolled up things that work in a big conveyer belt of women just being meat. And I wanted to rend it apart. I wanted to grab these people by the shoulders and yell out, maybe with some anger in my voice directed not just at the world but even at them, because I saw myself in them and I couldn't stand it because we were all on the same tipping boat.

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I would not know how to live without this. I would not know how to live with that.

Now, stop. Fucking stop.

Then learn.

Learn how to live without them. Without those.

First start by having the carpet from beneath your feet be yanked out from underneath and let yourself tread on the uneasy lands that had been first created by God, rudimentary and callous as it seems - as much as it is beautiful. Then you will start learning. That without that carpet, you will of course grow callouses on your feet, but you will still be worthy of being loved. You will still be - loved. That it's okay. That we have been facing the same fucking demons for over a million years. But we lived. And died. And were remembered. At least by - us. Do you get it? Do you understand now? That you were created not for some frame to be trapped in, and that you were supposed to create the frames yourself, and that frames were to be used as tools to advance further into growth, and not to snap ankles and keep them from healing so that we may never see the light beyond that frame. ...

I hope you see now. And you can be loved. Either way. Okay?

[springdevilhome]

A Glossy Interview Where You Live

This I wrote on April 13th, 2023.

I wrote this when I really, really did not want to live anymore. More accurately, I'd say it was more like no longer having the strength to go on. Every day was despair, essentially. Nothing to look forward to. Nothing I spot on this horizon of pain that would relieve me of feeling like I was at the end of my line for the last god damn time. And I thought about the legacy of people who go under during these times. And the legacy of those who fight through it and live to tell the tale, becoming a coy smile behind a camera or book, telling a story of not losing hope despite everything, that gets cycled around with a glossy finish. I survived so you can too. I survived so why not you? Stories like that. I'd read a lot of Wikipedia articles about the lives of many, many different people during this time. I wanted to get a window into somebody's life. How they lived, and died, and their names and life were laid out in front of me in a compact few paragraphs. I was angry. I was tired. I didn't know how to go on. And I thought about the sham of survival stories with a glossy finish. I thought about what I might say should I survive and get a chance to give my edited take on a bildungsroman. And I thought about somebody who had actually died but was still giving an interview even in their afterlife, posing as somebody who'd survived to tell this tale to flashing cameras with an off-white background behind them in some sort of urban studio.

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An interview where somebody talks about when they were in their early 20s, and how they were struggling extremely violently after many infringements on their humanity and rights and autonomy.

They were the classic victim of abuse. And rape not just by the number of real human hands that had gripped them but the world.

But oh, this tale is a success story. A growth story. A bildungsroman. They defeated their demons, and have risen above their abusers. They have survived. This must be a survivor story.

They are thanked by the staff at the end of the interview, and are given their leave.

They rise from the interview chair.

They have no legs. They have a severed hand, and many needle injuries on the bare skin of their legs shown beneath the mid-length pants.

Because they had committed suicide.

They never made it out alive.

The staff were also them.

The cameramen, the directors, the producers, the interviewer.

They were all - them.

The needle marks were something to boost courage - hard narcotics that gave them just enough delusion to break open their shell of mindless fear and lack of motivation. They were going to fester in that room anyway if it hadn't been for those chemicals.

And the sudden insane boost in brain activity had allowed them to step onto the platform - in the train station, in their big city of a small town.

And then - this is actually all credits to them, this was all them - they mustered up what seemed like the life essence of every timeline of healed life they could've lived, exhausted it all in one go, and with the blast, they found it in them that they had the guts to make that final bound after all. Off the platform.

And onto the oncoming train.

And there went the legs. And their life. And their breath.

But the soul got knocked off so hard that it never found real peace. It did not pass over. But it did stay in a pocket afterlife dimension where they just do silly showbiz parodies until - what is the concept of "until"? It has to be for ever. Until the end of time. Right?

And so they continue with their antics. Their producing. Their pretendings. Their "reenactments" of "what could have been." Thank you for coming to the interview. You are sure to have inspired many young people, given them hope, so that they could go on. It's the least I can do, chap! I'll be on my way now, my friends are waiting for me. And then they walk - no, glide - into the exit of the gigantic dollhouse of that dimension. Shut off the lights. Tomorrow we will be at it again. Remember to write that script!

[springdevilhome]

Addition: this is just a funny comment I made about this text that I just wanted to add to the post. Lol

This I wrote on February 7th, 2023.

So, I was in a toxic relationship during this time. A year and nine or so months in, I was pretty destroyed. I was with a man. And in the process of killing my true self as a means of catering to this person, I had effectively repressed anything "queer" about me. My attraction to women, my fancy of fun hodge-podge fashion that toes all lines of gender, my own hobbies and interests that deviate from convention or money, my solidarity with marginalized peoples and my willingness to be outspoken about abusive systems, ... the list goes on. I ended the relationship on March. I was liberated. But the previous month, on February, I was bed-ridden, only capable of scrolling on my phone as my muscles atrophied in those grueling sedentary months when my psyche finally gave in to the manipulation, stress, and abuse. I saw a picture of a beautiful woman with heart shaped glasses on Instagram by chance. She was so, so pretty. I wanted to love again. I wanted to love women again, as much as my heart desired. And I suddenly thought about a single father being consumed by his desire after years of not permitting himself to feel anything romantic. And he, just like me, had seen this picture of a beautiful woman. I wanted to spill him out through my fingers. And so he is. He was wrest onto existence. And I love women.

◇ ◇ ◇

sweating, shocked and shaken man running back home and closing and locking the door as soon as he gets in,

and as soon as he checks that all of the entrances are closed and locked he finds a wall that is the furthest away from the main entrance of the house, leans against it, and sinks to the floor, sitting in a foetal positio, taking of his glasses and rubbing his nose bridge in between the tips of two of his fingers. He lets out a long, drawn out, shaky sigh, and puts his face in his hands. as a seasoned single dad, the sense of responsibility he carries is like a mountain and so he rarely shows such a vulnerable and shaken state. his daughter, now a grown adult but still pretty unnerved by this sight, approaches him with much worry, and asks him what's wrong. After several moments of pained heaving, he finally takes ahold of his shaky voice to force it to speak, and opens his mouth.

"Just seen a woman dressed in a colorful top and some heart-shaped sunglasses.

....

..

......

She was beautiful."

What was he so afraid of? The sins of the flesh? The carnal desires of mankind finally besting him after all these years? Being a bad father? Not setting a good example as a now graying man who thought romance as being long past him, ever since he - upon leaving that old town - left it at the doorstep of the last home in which he felt love towards a woman - swearing it off just as he did foolishness? Being consumed by all of the normal joys he denied himself for more than a decade and a half? Learning that those joys were not dead, and even if they were, the imprints they left hanging on his skin were not mere vestiges but fresh wounds? What, was he so afraid of?

Actually, I don't even want to know. I actually started writing this because I wanted to make a funny and long-winded yet disposable outlet for being overcome by a strange feeling that was hard to describe upon seeing a picture of a beautiful woman in a sports game in America somewhere. But oh lord, I am now actually attached to this initially throwaway, one-time-use character guy I made for my own venting. God, I don't want him to be left there hanging. I don't want him to be a throwaway, disposable, and one-time-use character or guy. I want him to be happy. I want - I want him to let go of all of the fetters that may have actually been forcibly put on him at first, but are now only kept there remaining by his own very hands, and no one else's. Man, oh man. Guy, please be happy. Dang. In my mind I'll conjure up a half-assed yet still affordable and convincing happy outcome for you, so that we both can have some peace of mind. Damn, guy. Marry another woman. Your kids are all grown up. Hell, get that geology bachelor's degree you always wanted. Jesus Christ. Get a garden. For god's sake. Ain't nobody important in the world but you and the people who make you happy! God damn! I'll write you off as a happy guy, do doubt about it. Alright? Okay. Good. Now I'll also go to sleep. Love ya, rest easy, man.

[springdevilhome]

Picture This, A Beautitul Woman You Spot and A Decade and a Half of Believing Love's Past You

This I wrote on February 7th, 2023.

So, I was in a toxic relationship during this time. A year and nine or so months in, I was pretty destroyed. I was with a man. And in the process of killing my true self as a means of catering to this person, I had effectively repressed anything "queer" about me. My attraction to women, my fancy of fun hodge-podge fashion that toes all lines of gender, my own hobbies and interests that deviate from convention or money, my solidarity with marginalized peoples and my willingness to be outspoken about abusive systems, ... the list goes on. I ended the relationship on March. I was liberated. But the previous month, on February, I was bed-ridden, only capable of scrolling on my phone as my muscles atrophied in those grueling sedentary months when my psyche finally gave in to the manipulation, stress, and abuse. I saw a picture of a beautiful woman with heart shaped glasses on Instagram by chance. She was so, so pretty. I wanted to love again. I wanted to love women again, as much as my heart desired. And I suddenly thought about a single father being consumed by his desire after years of not permitting himself to feel anything romantic. And he, just like me, had seen this picture of a beautiful woman. I wanted to spill him out through my fingers. And so he is. He was wrest onto existence. And I love women.

◇ ◇ ◇

sweating, shocked and shaken man running back home and closing and locking the door as soon as he gets in,

and as soon as he checks that all of the entrances are closed and locked he finds a wall that is the furthest away from the main entrance of the house, leans against it, and sinks to the floor, sitting in a foetal position, taking off his glasses and rubbing his nose bridge in between the tips of two of his fingers. He lets out a long, drawn out, shaky sigh, and puts his face in his hands. as a seasoned single dad, the sense of responsibility he carries is like a mountain and so he rarely shows such a vulnerable and shaken state. his daughter, now a grown adult but still pretty unnerved by this sight, approaches him with much worry, and asks him what's wrong. After several moments of pained heaving, he finally takes ahold of his shaky voice to force it to speak, and opens his mouth.

"Just seen a woman dressed in a colorful top and some heart-shaped sunglasses.

....

..

......

She was beautiful."

What was he so afraid of? The sins of the flesh? The carnal desires of mankind finally besting him after all these years? Being a bad father? Not setting a good example as a now graying man who thought romance as being long past him, ever since he - upon leaving that old town - left it at the doorstep of the last home in which he felt love towards a woman - swearing it off just as he did foolishness? Being consumed by all of the normal joys he denied himself for more than a decade and a half? Learning that those joys were not dead, and even if they were, the imprints they left hanging on his skin were not mere vestiges but fresh wounds? What, was he so afraid of?

Actually, I don't even want to know. I actually started writing this because I wanted to make a funny and long-winded yet disposable outlet for being overcome by a strange feeling that was hard to describe upon seeing a picture of a beautiful woman in a sports game in America somewhere. But oh lord, I am now actually attached to this initially throwaway, one-time-use character guy I made for my own venting. God, I don't want him to be left there hanging. I don't want him to be a throwaway, disposable, and one-time-use character or guy. I want him to be happy. I want - I want him to let go of all of the fetters that may have actually been forcibly put on him at first, but are now only kept there remaining by his own very hands, and no one else's. Man, oh man. Guy, please be happy. Dang. In my mind I'll conjure up a half-assed yet still affordable and convincing happy outcome for you, so that we both can have some peace of mind. Damn, guy. Marry another woman. Your kids are all grown up. Hell, get that geology bachelor's degree you always wanted. Jesus Christ. Get a garden. For god's sake. Ain't nobody important in the world but you and the people who make you happy! God damn! I'll write you off as a happy guy, do doubt about it. Alright? Okay. Good. Now I'll also go to sleep. Love ya, rest easy, man.

[springdevilhome]

Hot Diggity Dog and a Love For Life

This I wrote on February 6th, 2023.

Now, I love thinking about random guys who have some sort of shtick that's very, very odd. Like, for instance, a guy who can only speak in words that end in -ot. But the twist here, is that, I always try to imagine what life they would lead. What actual obstacles do they face? What will their interactions with the world at large be like? I try to melt myself into the world they see. And then I start writing about how the existential depths of these absurd "shticks" might bring forth some sort of human understanding for the guy, or me, you, and the world, at large. This text was one of those "imagine if there was some guy who [does a weird thing]" texts turned strangely personal.

When I wrote this, I was quite literally going through one of the worst nadirs I had ever hit. I really, really wanted to believe in life. And I sang songs to life to coax it out of wherever it went hiding from me during that dark hour so as to hold its hand again. I wanted to live, you see. And I'm glad to say that now, on the October of that same year, I am living life without a sort of begging. Life is with me. And I'm alive, with the intention to live longer, and meet all kinds of news and new olds to temper me.

◇ ◇ ◇

Guy who said "hot-!" once but ever since he said that he has only spoken and repeated the word "diggity"...

We do not know when he will say "dog," but we are sure that on that day, he and his loved ones are to find another day of peace and happiness, but with a note of finality. It may not signal an end to all good things; it may simply be a raising of a newly timbered mast, brandished for a new journey, that might bring new joys, or perhaps the same old happinnesses - though either are fine and welcome all the same. I close this paragraph with a swift but lighthearted stroke, and a smile. There is nothing too inherent about being human, but I like it as it is. My heart can reach new heights and depths of weight and levity, and though it might do so without so much of an ancient purposeful design, I am just alright! I will revel in joy and despair in sorrow. I will mellow out on lukewarm days, being feeling at some sorts of "there" and "here." I like it all the same. I don't know if I would or could change something - even much - about the human experience, but oh, I think that if it may be for only just this once, I am glad - and happy to be clueless! I feel hearty. And that's all that there is for now. I will wash my hands and drink water, and wake up after some sleeping to heat up some food from yonder. I am glad I am alive. And now I smile, and close.

[springdevilhome]

The Real Reason I Didn't Read 'A Tale of Two Cities' Yet

This I wrote on February 4th, 2023.

Sometimes I start writing by starting off with a very silly sounding premise. Like this text, for example, starts off with an imaginary someone asking the speaker why they didn't read 'A Tale of Two Cities' already with a slightly accusatory tone, like something you could hear from some mundane conversation. But the answer to the question is way too heavy and is, by that nature, just bizarre. I like how these are conversations absolutely no one would have in real life. It adds to the fun.

Note: the improper punctuation adds to the experience of reading this, I think. Besides, I originally wrote this in a crazed manner on my personal writing space (which is actually a Discord server which I made for myself, in which I am the only member).

◇ ◇ ◇

hey why haven't you read a tale of two cities yet??? your sister did 4 years ago and now she excels in literature studies

Okay that's actually because I am reading a similar book right now instead. it's called a tale of two kids, one who read a tale of two cities and went on to find some profound happiness brought on by the complexities of understanding in classic literature, and one who decided not to read a tale of two cities and, despite not enlightening their own self about the true nature of the human condition or whatever, they were content on reading things like fast fiction(like fiction but fast food) solely for self indulgement and passing time but was happy anyway. because we do things to be ultimately happy, right? if the prospect of having to do something creates more dread than comfort, I genuinely do not see why I have to do it. Although the profundity of my own happiness falls short of what you expect of me as you expect from others, I still feel quite blissful and giddy reading massively produced, quote unquote "trash" fiction, and yes you may say I am turning a blind eye towards some much needed soul-searching, but I honestly am content with just living a "flat" and "shallow" life if it means that I can be happy in my own terms. So yes, leave me be. It's not escapism if consuming "unrealistic" media forms the backbone to my will to live, is it?

[springdevilhome]

Ghost Girl in Cyberspace

This I wrote on January 13th, 2023.

The concept of digital footprints really intrigue me. To know that even after your physical passing - even after you stop being a physical and felt presence in the world and to those around you - your personal etchings will still be frozen in time in the digital realm... well, that's pretty haunting. But that's not necessarily something unsustainably negative. To just know a good part of your consciousness broke through to reality by digital means, that's actually kind of heartwarming too. Now, this short text is just thinking about a girl who dies but then discovers she is trapped as a consciousness operating within her digital footprint.

◇ ◇ ◇

A ghost girl living in cyberspace laments about how it feels - no, felt, like to be alive...

...and oh to hear a serenade loving and loving, loving the hell out of life and the joy of being able to live through it all... to feel it... to your very bones, until the day they gave way beneath the failing nerves and muscles and tendons. . . It was a distant memory, yes? But why do I feel like time does not heal all wounds? Did I lose the ability to forgive and forget, and to get over things after dying? All of my regrets and the pain of dying when I indeed had so much left to do still stay with me, as if they were freshly cut into the soft flesh of my being... or whatever remained of it, anyway. Well, whatever. It's not like I can do much about it anyway. Now back to blogging... Some html editing, some designing, some witty writing... I know I will eventually run out of material but hey, what is a girl to do after she finds out her soul is now trapped in cyberspace?

[springdevilhome]

I opened a writing blog because I wanted to better organize the things I write, as well as be able to share my writings with my friends. A close friend recently suggested I open a blog to post my writings, so I think it's a nice dip in time to follow her advice. It's nice to share. I think I'm okay with people, or even just another person, seeing what I wrote, even if it's so personal. I think I'm at that point. Though how much I leave this blog open can be subject to change. Anyways, I'm happy to open this blog. To the warmth that awaits with deciding to share!