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reenka`real life' journals boggle me. boggle, boggle. i like that word. i mean-- commenting on people's "real" lives. i suppose that's sort of what happens when people chat or email (privately). maybe i think of this as public too much, and maybe that's why people make things friends-only or whatever, so it turns into some sort of personal mailing-list type thing. i followed 4 journals, in my life, with any interest, ever. 4. very, very, very, VERY few people have the talent for being interesting on random subjects, themselves especially. that would be ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
liquor (all hail the queen *grins*), helena* [who is a journalling genius-- either that or it's just my personal bias that i think everything she says tends to be quirky and funny and deep and fascinating], moderngypsy [elizabeth: whom i just added, having not realized she was in lj-land before. eliiiizabeeeth..! whoa. memories. and she probably has -no idea- who i am], and adri (aaaack, adriiii, i missss you stilllll-- oh, erm, that's-- `made to be broken'!adrienne, for all those of you-- ie, everyone, who don't know). ahem. it's not that most everyone else is boring....... ok, they're boring ^^;;
that mini-list is basically old-time net diarists. man, people used to be interesting. *smokes faux!cigarette and acts cynical* it used to be a community, maaan (*is fond of own faux!drawl*) i'm an old-timer, hahahah. that's hilarious. well, obviously, i'm old, so mind as well be an old-timer ^^;; anyway, i was just thinking that it doesn't matter, when it comes to people i'm already friends with-- yes, i'd pretty much read anything they wrote, there's this inherent interest. in fact, i'd squee madly, and be delighted (as a cat in pajamas? as a piglet in tights?? something like that-- never let it be said i can remember expressions to save my life-- in fact, especially to save my life). especially all those people who've disappeared and don't talk to me and their emails bounce and i wonder if they're in spain by now. yes, -those- people. even if they said, "today i had a sandwich. it was good. btw, i am fine, and i like orange juice and scrabble, still"-- i'd be happy. damned emotional bias.
lots of other people are interesting--silenceleigh [kris of `new zero'], neil, of course, kathy handley [dunno where she is anymore-- yummy, she wrote in poetry and wow, i'm a sucker for that], ginkgo of `dreaming among the jade clouds' had always been fascinating (she's... she's..... she's dead, i think........i never knew her, and i just found out right NOW... but... she was beautiful... god.......... oh. *angry*.... i can't talk about this right now), and a number of other people, but i never got addicted to their lives, even for a short time.
anyway. guh. i lost my train of thought. she's... i mean... i went to her site maybe 5 times, 6. and i thought her art and her words were beautiful, and. this was going to just be an edit to my last entry, just a little thought, some links and some diarists i used to know. suicide gives me huge amounts of rage. and i mean-- it's like. people could kill thousands, and i would "understand", meaning-- in a way, it's less frightening to me. there is that quote, by g.k. chesterton, which, paraphrased, says basically that suicide is -the- sin, because when you kill yourself you're killing the world besides.
i don't -blame- them, or her, or anyone-- it's just-- just-- just. i know sometimes things snap, and you think it's all too much and relief sounds good. and death sounds easy. and it's not a question of ideals or of not hurting the ones who love you, it's a question of not hurting, period. but i just get so angry. she was so beautiful, and talented, and now i can't look at any of her work with the same eyes, because i hear it in my head "and then she killed herself, and then she killed herself". it's funny, writing about death.
you write about it, and you don't feel much pain, usually, usually you write it because it advances the plot, or is a fitting resolution somehow-- it's not even as painful as a scab, or a papercut. maybe a part of me is resentful, after all, resentful of people you love going away for any reason, whether they're sick physically or mentally. they just shouldn't, should they, should they. they just shouldn't. and then you have to live with it, and swallow it down, like black bile choking you every day, and you learn not to notice it, and it's almost ok, almost, but it's not, because nothing is ever okay again, and how can you not hate that person you loved even if just a little because you can't feel the same and you want to and they did this to you, they changed your whole world just like that, by existing and then not existing.
and maybe it's their right and maybe it's what you signed up for when you get to know anyone. maybe. bleh. *goes off to think of totally and completely and utterly unrelated things, hopefully to rereadnmalfoy's smut* :D ...
*sigh*
liquor (all hail the queen *grins*), helena* [who is a journalling genius-- either that or it's just my personal bias that i think everything she says tends to be quirky and funny and deep and fascinating], moderngypsy [elizabeth: whom i just added, having not realized she was in lj-land before. eliiiizabeeeth..! whoa. memories. and she probably has -no idea- who i am], and adri (aaaack, adriiii, i missss you stilllll-- oh, erm, that's-- `made to be broken'!adrienne, for all those of you-- ie, everyone, who don't know). ahem. it's not that most everyone else is boring....... ok, they're boring ^^;;that mini-list is basically old-time net diarists. man, people used to be interesting. *smokes faux!cigarette and acts cynical* it used to be a community, maaan (*is fond of own faux!drawl*) i'm an old-timer, hahahah. that's hilarious. well, obviously, i'm old, so mind as well be an old-timer ^^;; anyway, i was just thinking that it doesn't matter, when it comes to people i'm already friends with-- yes, i'd pretty much read anything they wrote, there's this inherent interest. in fact, i'd squee madly, and be delighted (as a cat in pajamas? as a piglet in tights?? something like that-- never let it be said i can remember expressions to save my life-- in fact, especially to save my life). especially all those people who've disappeared and don't talk to me and their emails bounce and i wonder if they're in spain by now. yes, -those- people. even if they said, "today i had a sandwich. it was good. btw, i am fine, and i like orange juice and scrabble, still"-- i'd be happy. damned emotional bias.
lots of other people are interesting--
silenceleigh [kris of `new zero'], neil, of course, kathy handley [dunno where she is anymore-- yummy, she wrote in poetry and wow, i'm a sucker for that], ginkgo of `dreaming among the jade clouds' had always been fascinating (she's... she's..... she's dead, i think........i never knew her, and i just found out right NOW... but... she was beautiful... god.......... oh. *angry*.... i can't talk about this right now), and a number of other people, but i never got addicted to their lives, even for a short time. anyway. guh. i lost my train of thought. she's... i mean... i went to her site maybe 5 times, 6. and i thought her art and her words were beautiful, and. this was going to just be an edit to my last entry, just a little thought, some links and some diarists i used to know. suicide gives me huge amounts of rage. and i mean-- it's like. people could kill thousands, and i would "understand", meaning-- in a way, it's less frightening to me. there is that quote, by g.k. chesterton, which, paraphrased, says basically that suicide is -the- sin, because when you kill yourself you're killing the world besides.
i don't -blame- them, or her, or anyone-- it's just-- just-- just. i know sometimes things snap, and you think it's all too much and relief sounds good. and death sounds easy. and it's not a question of ideals or of not hurting the ones who love you, it's a question of not hurting, period. but i just get so angry. she was so beautiful, and talented, and now i can't look at any of her work with the same eyes, because i hear it in my head "and then she killed herself, and then she killed herself". it's funny, writing about death.
you write about it, and you don't feel much pain, usually, usually you write it because it advances the plot, or is a fitting resolution somehow-- it's not even as painful as a scab, or a papercut. maybe a part of me is resentful, after all, resentful of people you love going away for any reason, whether they're sick physically or mentally. they just shouldn't, should they, should they. they just shouldn't. and then you have to live with it, and swallow it down, like black bile choking you every day, and you learn not to notice it, and it's almost ok, almost, but it's not, because nothing is ever okay again, and how can you not hate that person you loved even if just a little because you can't feel the same and you want to and they did this to you, they changed your whole world just like that, by existing and then not existing.
and maybe it's their right and maybe it's what you signed up for when you get to know anyone. maybe. bleh. *goes off to think of totally and completely and utterly unrelated things, hopefully to reread
nmalfoy's smut* :D ...*sigh*
