Fact 2

To post total crap, and try to shape its structure so that it won't look like crap. Now, that is an art.

Mama

It's mama's birthday. She turns fifty today. She's been through a lot all, these fifty years, and that's just what I've known, not the stuff that I never knew. She may have probably missed a lot of life (who lives life to the fullest?), she may have some regrets, she may have not. She may have ended up not where she wanted.

She may have ended up with a couple of kids who did the "it" and followed through, and one that did not, the maybe-potentially-gifted-but-practically-disappointment. I may be all day in my dungeon, buried in my solitude, I may be away for a week, but let me tell you this, mama. You're the coolest chick I've ever met, and you're the reason that keeps me from falling apart, and keeps me hoping that I'll make it somehow in the end, and I love you these days even more.

Facts (Footnote)

Everyone does.

Facts

Chicks love talking about themselves.

114

درست، کتک کاری کار به جایی نمی بره، ولی چی می بره؟

Where's inspiration? Where's Motivation?

113

خلوتی که می خواستم توش تولید داشته باشم رو دارم الآن. این همه هم ناله کردم که اه چقد خونه بچه ها، آخ من موجود اجتماعی نیستم، پیف من کلی کار دارم، ایده ی فلان، آهنگ بهمان، ریکورد زهرمار، لیریک درد، میکس کوفت، کو پس؟ کو پس ریغوی چوقی مردنیِ به درد نخور؟ کو آلبومت؟ کو پُلی ریتمِت؟ کو تمرینت؟ کو کارِت؟ کو تولیدِت؟ کو تولیدِت؟

کولر لطفاً!

گیج مرگی

این قدر که کتک کاری با خودم ازم انرژی می گیره، دو تا شنا و دراز نشستی که دو روزه به زور دارم می رم نمی گیره. یه ذره آروم شه همه چی. یه ذره همه چی سعی کنه بهتر و آسون تر شه، یه ذره قابل تر باشم. نمی شه انگار. نمی شه انگار گَر و گیج نبود و با خیال راحت کاری رو که باید کرد رو کرد. باید همیشه یه چیزی یه جوری گیر کنه که همیشه یه چیزی دیر شه، یه چیزی فراموش شه، یه چیزی گم شه و کلاً ماجرا از بیخ فراموش شه و بعد چن روز از اول یادت بیاد که چیو فراموش کرده بودی و همون وسط چیز دیگه ای رو که فراموش کرده بودی یادت بیاد و فراموش کنی که یادت اومده بود که چه چیزی رو که فراموش کرده بودی رو یادت اومده بود. نه صرفاً یه عمل فیزیکی. آیلتس و رشته و اَپلیکِیشِن بخوره تو سرم. ایده ی اولیه ی 5 دقیقه پیشمو که یادم می ره تا به مرحله ی اجرا یا پرداخت برسه، خیلی بی ریخت تره، انگار.

احوالات 12 می

Just to work and progress. Seems like a dream. Just to have that motivation now seems like a distance memory. Bugged off on cheap cigar and reminescents of head aches of dehydration and malnutrition, this is my last resort. This stupid white box. Clawing at this last bits of consciousness, I'm still sitting here, sweating and watching. This dust on the desk, this stale air I keep breathing out, all seems unfair, dead and soulless. I'm lost in this self repeating maze of sinking deeper and deeper into this weakness, this disability to change, to make things happen, anything. I keep scaaring myself with the images in my head that get clearer and more saturated with reality, getting trapped inside a dead body with a still functioning mind and sense, and these walls just keep getting higher and higher; so high and thick that I'm getting used to them, unconsciously forgetting about life out there. The cycle, the circle lives on, and the disease spreads through my mind gradually every single day. I just tend to forget about it and live with it, accept that it never changes, and accept that you're weak, you're not what you imagine you are, and whatever you may have been is probably asleep deep down there, he may or may not decide to wake up, whenever he wants, and you just can't keep sticking your fingers in his ears, trying to wake him up.

Whatever. It's just pathetic. Semination goes on, as does the smoke, as does the aches.