chardismastic | a e s t h e t i c.

a e s t h e t i c.

CHARACTER

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OCCUPATION
OTHERS

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INVENTORY

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POWERS

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WEAKNESSES

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WEAKNESS Description
WEAKNESS Description

ABILITIES

ABILITY Description
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ABILITY Description

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2014 ASTON MARTIN DB9

2012 LAMBORGHINI AVENTADOR ROADSTER

2011 FERRARI SA APERTA 599

2016 KOENIGSEGG CCX

2015 TESLA ROADSTER 3.0

2007 SUZUKI GSXR 750

1957 OLDSMOBILE SUPER 88 FIESTA WAGON

1972 FORD BRONCO

( x )

Edited 2017-07-23 04:48 (UTC)

I was not prepared: sunset, end of summer. Demonstrations
of time as a continuum, as something coming to an end,
not a suspension; the senses wouldn’t protect me.
I caution you as I was never cautioned:

you will never let go, you will never be satiated.
You will be damaged and scarred, you will continue to hunger.

Your body will age, you will continue to need.
You will want the earth, then more of the earth—

Sublime, indifferent, it is present, it will not respond.
It is encompassing, it will not minister.

Meaning, it will feed you, it will ravish you,
it will not keep you alive.

This is an apology
for the things I have to say about us
to get over us.

I feel most like myself
when I am washing blood off my hands
in the shower; and I hope
whatever is eating you alive does it as slowly
as possible. I know it doesn’t sound like it,
but this is a love poem, this is a love poem,
this is a love poem
until it isn’t anymore.

It’s a relief to be bereft
of shame, of guilt, to know

what you want. To want.

Parents give their children hand-me-down ache
like holding onto baby teeth.
This, history of raw & howling is not dead,
neither are you.

Gilda: I hate him!

Ballin: And he hates you. That's very apparent. But hate can be a very exciting emotion. Very exciting. Haven't you noticed that? There is a heat in it, that one can feel. Didn't you feel it tonight?

Gilda: No.

Ballin: I did. It warmed me. Hate is the only thing that has ever warmed me.

Do not let
anyone
strip you down
and burn you
to the ground,
this includes
yourself.
You do not
need to
rise from
unnecessary ashes
to become
something beautiful.

What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.

You know what I hate about this world? How I have to think “They are helping me, but what do they want for it?"

Always worth it to have tried, even if you fail, even if you fall like a meteor forever. Better to have flamed in the darkness, to have inspired others, to have lived, than to have sat in the darkness, cursing the people who borrowed, but did not return, your candle.

Never, never tell them. Try and remember that. Never tell anyone anything ever. Never tell anyone anything again.

I am tired of being a person. Not just tired of being the person I was, but any person at all. I like watching people, but I don’t like talking to them, dealing with them, pleasing them, or offending them. I am tired.

Whatever you love passionately always destroys you in the end. But how can I explain what has happened to me? How can I make anyone even understand that I can write about it? I don’t know, I don’t know any more; all I know is that it is so.

…I long to be out in the wide open spaces of the very messy, dangerous, real world which I still love in spite of everything…

Yes, I held onto the stars.
Yes, I let them burn me.
Because despite the pain,
the longing,
and the loneliness,
they were the only things
in this goddamn universe
that kept me warm.

All great things must first wear terrifying and monstrous masks in order to inscribe themselves on the hearts of humanity.

...and you wanted
an adventure, so I said "Have an adventure."
The straw about to burn, the straw on fire. Here you are on the TV,
saying "Watch me, just watch me."

Four dreams in a row, four dreams in a row, four dreams in a row,
fall down right there. I wanted to fall down right there but I knew
you wouldn’t catch me because you’re dead. I swallowed crushed ice
pretending it was glass and you’re dead. Ashes to ashes.

You wanted to be cremated so we cremated you and you wanted an adventure
so I ran and I knew you wouldn’t catch me.
You are a fever I am learning to live with, and everything is happening
at the wrong end of a very long tunnel.

He was not dead yet, not exactly—
parts of him were dead already, certainly other parts were still only waiting
for something to happen, something grand, but it isn’t
always about me,
he keeps saying, though he’s talking about the only heart he knows—

He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. There’s a niche in his chest
where a heart would fit perfectly
and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place—
well then, game over.

he knows how to lift
and to spread. how the human fist evolved
through violence. how the softest
still hold their own brutality. strange,
how different the hand looks wrapped
around a throat than a pen. becomes
almost an entirely different appendage.
blood carries red ink into the fingers,
it stains everything you touch.

I am troubled and harsh and hopeless. Though I have love inside me. But I don’t know how to use love. Sometimes it scratches like barbs.

Something is not right about what I’m doing but I’m still doing it—living in the worst parts, ruining myself. My inner life is a sheet of black glass. If I fell through the floor I would keep falling. The enormity of my desire disgusts me.

My blood is alive with many voices telling me I am made of longing.

It's hard to let go. Even when what you're holding onto is full of thorns, it's hard to let go. Maybe especially then.

Edited 2019-07-05 21:50 (UTC)

A tragedy is when every choice made by the characters makes perfect sense and is perfectly reasonable for who they are; yet somehow your options narrow until you find yourself destroying someone you love and admire, with no joy in it at all, like destroying your own soul.

You find yourself, horribly, standing over someone whose suffering isn’t funny or enjoyable at all, unsure how you even got here.

Every choice seemed like an inevitable reaction to what had gone before; each action seemed like an entirely reasonable response. Now you’re someplace you never wanted to be, someone you never wanted to be.

The hopeless dream of being not seeming, but being. At every waking moment, alert. The gulf between what you are with others and what you are alone. The vertigo and the constant hunger to be exposed, to be seen through, perhaps even wiped out. Every inflection and every gesture a lie, every smile a grimace.

My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me. I attend to everything, dreaming all the while.

[...]

I’ve dreamed a lot. I’m tired now from dreaming but not tired of dreaming. No one tires of dreaming, because to dream is to forget, and forgetting does not weigh on us, it is a dreamless sleep throughout which we remain awake. In dreams I have achieved everything.

Edited 2020-07-12 05:30 (UTC)

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a e s t h e t i c.

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and then there's these assholes

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c o l t m 1 9 1 1.

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q u o t e s.

louise glück, “The Sensual World”

trista mateer

maggie nelson, “Today’s storm"

ana carrizo, “Learning To Swim Half-Asleep”

Gilda (1946)

michelle k.

sylvia plath, "The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath"

coral-vellichor

neil gaiman, "Trigger Warning: Short Fictions and Disturbances"

ernest hemingway

susan sontag, "I, etcetera: Stories"

guy de maupassant, "Paris Tales"

sylvia plath, "Letters Home"

k.s., "and it was worth it"

friedrich nietzsche, "Beyond Good and Evil: Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future"

richard siken, "Straw House, Straw Dog"

richard siken, "Road Music"

sam sax, “The Boy Detective Analyzes His Hands"

clarice lispector, "Água Viva"

richard siken, “Birds Hover the Trampled Field”

rainer maria rilke, "The Book Of Hours"

stephen king, "Joyland"

j.j. mcgee, "The Spectacle of Excess"

Persona (1966)

fernando pessoa, "The Book of Disquiet"