hahaha

it's all bullshit.

this tearing myself down then building myself up.

tearing myself down

building myself up

tearing myself down

tearing myself down

tearing myself down

with practice, i am getting faster at it. soon i'll be a new person every morning that i wake up.

it's all a restart. new life, a new personality.

yet nothing really changes except your memory gets worse. and then people on the street are saying hi to you and recognizing you, but you don't know who they are.

i think it's like drugs, this process.

the more you do it, the more and more you lose a little bit of yourself, yet you're compelled to keep going.

it's like a snake. shedding. but instead of growing, something in you gets smaller. and the other voices get more distinct.

i tell you though. snakes are beautiful creatures.

colin told me that when a writer creates a character, that character stays with him for the rest of his life.

i said, i know. they haunt you.

i asked him if the characters in a person's head are coming or going. do they only come in when you make them up because by imagining them you've invited them in, or are writers just crazy people who spend their lives desperately trying to exorcise these screaming tormented souls who were born into the world with them, demanding a voice, so that one day they can have the peace of a quiet mind? maybe we talk to dead people and don't even know it. maybe we are the dead people, and don't even know it.

i will say this though.

you can listen to us, but be aware. writers walk the edge of darkness like madmen along midnight train tracks. we are the quicksand that entices you with hypnotic promises of adventure, knowing full well that to accept us is to succumb to us. when we invite you in for a ride, you trust us not to lead you to someplace damaging, destructive. someplace so completely raw and overwhelmingly intimate as to destroy all boundaries. all sense of reality. but to be honest, that requires a lot of restraint. to not fuck with that trust. to not fuck with the fact that you trust us not to reach into your heads and fuck you where you're the most vulnerable, where all that is logical is clutched tightly so that everything is in its place, a reality that's compartmentalized and predictable. continuity is comfortable, isn't it? yeah, it makes you feel like you actually have some control over your destiny. but you know it's fragile. a person's tenuous grasp on his perception of reality is his weakest link. admit it. we depend on the visions, ideas and inspiration of people who straddle the frail, frail line between genius and madness, hoping that what they project to us is the truth that could save us. there's a 50/50 chance you're following a madman into the abyss.

i'm just saying that every coin has 3 sides.

2 that belong to him.

and the 1 that is his shadow.

i'm going into withdrawals because i'm forcing isolation on myself and half of me is struggling. sometimes i have to bitch slap her and lock her in the dungeon. i never claimed i wasn't a sadist.

yesterday i admitted to a complete stranger that i lie just to make sure that no one knows completely who i am. but maybe that's a lie, too.

because sometimes i lie about lying, to distract you from the fact that i am by honor bound to express truth and vulnerability. but the rules don't forbid the simultaneous projection of smoke.

how much do you hate an unreliable narrator?

they say that handwriting is very indicative of your personality.

i can't even present myself in a straight line. is it any surprise that i'm completely motorly impaired in my ability to draw one?

anyway, like i was saying, withdrawals. and it somehow shattered my sense of self tonight, so it's like looking at myself in a prism. this is good because it means the process has started. pretty soon, the characters will begin. how dangerous is it that i'm allowing pluto to lead me right now? i never said i wasn't scared. courage is knowing you should be scared, but following through anyway. i guess you could say, so is stupidity.

(to be honest with you, sometimes i look at my words and i don't know where the fuck they come from. it's like a room full of people all crowding for the same videophone yelling things at it. and julia is just the mouthpiece).

i am a trustworthy person who can not be trusted? i am an honest liar? i am the smartest retarded person you ever met? or am i the most pathetic piece of brilliance to ever stick to the bottom of your shoe? perhaps i am just a lurking shadow of everything you don't want to look at. just a ghost that got stuck in the spaces in between.

don't anyone come near me right now. the weather today is stormy with an 83% chance of locusts.