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[02/10/2015 17:05 pst]

Admin will begin titling his journal entries, for whatever it is worth. During the black MySpace period, all entries to that blog were time stamped, emotionalized, categorized, and titled. From this point forward, that vein shall continue. Below.



The Air

 read ( words)

"Well now. We have inhabited this small space before. The dreams and hopes are different now, but the space remains as it always has... A three by three by three vacuous cube. Just enough breathable air comes in from time to time serving to keep us alive. Motionless, thoughtful, and yearning for the occasional air to reach us, we are. For the last several days, this is it. This is all. We wait for the air and while it flows we are in heaven. The opposite is injected into our hearts when that beautiful air stops -- hell. We are there now. Just the flame of existence, and our bodies enmeshed within the machine. All manner of visions, dreams, thoughts invade whilst waiting, and the discomfort can be extreme. The air provides such a life-filled feeling and allows our eyes to be opened... It is everything. The air brings us so much that when it is not there we immediately snap into a disfigured and broken silhouette of our former selves. Any blood stops flowing, cold remains, light dims, and we cannot function. We are no longer human. We are merely meat shoved into a box.

And we will remain miserable, cold, torn, and distorted just for the occasional short breath of the air which now keeps us alive.



619

Close...



Perhaps we are not in a box, but a hole. The cold flows, dry and blistering, like the breath of the devil. The air brings warmth and as it exits we freeze into our disjointed world once again. We are there. We are fucking there all too often. We need the Goddamned air. Unfortunately, the air is vastly unavailable and as we yearn and wish, it eludes. The possibility of more air constantly floats just out of reach and forces us to grasp over and over. The air is right there... Thousandths of an inch beyond our frail and dying fingers. It is there... Right fucking there. We may just die in this position -- mangled as we are.



010

Closer...



How long can this last? Will there be an end? And will it be the end expected? Fucking hell.

We have railed at length and for years over the distress which brings us to a reckless and desperate point, and written drunken and hellish thoughts over the decision which for all time has eluded us. Now an entirely new decision? Fuck. Someone please bring the hammer we need and drive the nail we already display which is embedded -- partially -- within our damaged temple. Drive it in the remainder of its journey and place our thoughts into oblivion. Fuck. Please? We apparently cannot accomplish this ourselves due to endless fucking thoughts, confusion, contemplation and alcohol.

In this small space we shall remain until otherwise motivated and drawn to that beautiful air. Why must it be out of reach? Just fucking why? We need it. We fucking NEED it like the sun needs to burn. We need all of it and there is no other way to survive. The air. The fucking beautiful air. There simply is nothing else for us now... No music... No tears... No joy... No push forward. There is nothing and we are cemented into said nothingness like a fossil within granite.

She is the air."



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