Nothing really matters
дневник заведен 24-07-2004
США, Сан-Франциско, Украина, Харьков
интересы [28]
общение, книги, огонь, походы, небо, русский рок, вылазки, гитара, Холодное оружие, сказки, Легенды, Тяжелая музыка, взаимопонимание, Пистолеты, самопознание, человеческие отношения, депрессивная музыка, море-океан, нестандартность мышления, мифологии, истории религий
[7] 12-05-2007 07:35

17-01-2006 04:56 Можно я процитирую...
This is the idea I had, and the idea is called "Part of you dies". When something happens part of you dies. My dad would take me out on weekends, stand me up in a backyard at attention, and make me sing the national anthem. If I messed one word he'ld smack me on the side of my head. Every time he smacked me, part of me died. When I would lie in my bed at night and listen my mom fuck the next door to my room, part of me would die. When her boyfriends would beat the shit out of me, part of me would die. And part of you dies all the time. And so, I do with it the best I can, when parts of me die. And that's why I write, because when when parts of me die it hirts, and I write about it. Parts of you die all the time. Sometimes it's beautiful, sometimes it just hurts. Anyway, I wrote that last night 3 in the morning:

...Time with you was perfect, never boring, never wasted, you were always the same - intense and beautiful, amasing. I would look at you as we sat in places, when I was away from you, I would stare at you picture endlessly. Something you never got a chance to find out, something you'll never know, one fact - I would've done anything for you, knowing, that it all could be used against me. I know what happens when you do it even a little - I have the scars. For you, I would've pulled sunlight from thin air, and lifted the curses from your life. I loved you so. It's tragic at this point. It's like an ongoing funeral. You're out there somewhere. And sometimes I feel myself dying slow, knowing that you're alive somewhere, and somebody else's smelling your hair, touching your neck. You know how those barbed and clogged nights can pass, they rip the meat right off your back, send you to the corner and leave you with enough of your sences to realize that you live to see the next hammering night alone...

So that where I was at 3am this morning. (c)
Henry Rollins

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