The best thing about life is knowing you put it together

Some stories cut so deep that retelling them are an impossibility. They are the dark selves that we carry and which we will take with us, entombed alongside us in our graves.  Like that Stone Sour lyric said, "some things are better left unspoken.We bury them in places that we really only visit by ourselves; Oh and you were a version like no other". Great song. And since I can't think of any stories to tell right now, and even if I knew, I wouldn't tell, because then it wouldn't be a "cuts too deep" kind of story, would it, so yeah, here's a little ramble down rambly paths.

NIN's "A warm place"-"the best thing about life is knowing you put it together". So evocative and philosophical in its simplicity and yet, for the life of me, I can't think of a way to explain it. 

Much as I claim to love this place despite or because of its many imperfections, it has a way of smothering you in its self-contained little unit so that you cannot think of anything past it. The world outside edges away and you withdraw into the cocoony embrace of home. Security stifles thought, turns your mind into a dull little blade. You forget what it was that had you so excited in what seems like ages and ages ago. Thoughts that would provoke thought are dismissed with a lazy and final thud. 

Re- reading Ian Fleming's "From Russia with Love" and this bastardization of an old quote popped up at me- well, mildly highlighted would be more like it; most things are incapable of popping in my current frame of mind- "Those whom the gods wish to destroy, they first ruin with boredom". 

Don't get me wrong. I'm not sad or anything, in fact, I'm a bloody contented fat cat. And this will sound terribly arrogant but here it is-

I want inspiration and something to feel desperate over!!! 

(I should be careful what I wish for, for I just might get it, wouldn't I?)

The best thing about life is knowing you put it together -there's something ironical about it but I can't quite put my finger on it.

This comic says what I need to say, some of it at least. here-http://theoatmeal.com/comics/making_things  

I need to go hang-gliding in my underpants.

non-poet

82 mutual friends and a call unanswered-
Oh the amount of feelings lodged into that one sentence.
Were I a poet, I'd say much more
Elucidated in veiled eloquence
But alas and alack, and woe and sigh
and other exclamatory sad-denoting words,
I'm not a poet
So I won't say more.

Hey there November

Thank you for the very facebook-statusable November rain. Sorry I didn't oblige, though. With the status, I mean.

Thank you for the sludge and wet and fog and cold and a day that called for staying in and sleeping in. Couldn't oblige there again, sadly.

Thank you for another thing that I want to never think about again.

Spent the night at a girlfriend's place. We talked about theory and the power of the word- whether written or spoken. I umm-ed and niaa-ed like I understood but all the while, it was words of an entirely un-theoritical kind that I thought about.

"Atirin thu a awm a.."

Words in the beginning, somewhere in the middle and still some more towards the end. Words that you claim reveal too much when spoken, and condemn too much when unspoken.

I now have none left.
I can't think.
I'm going to go watch a Hitler movie.