TV is the wool pulled over our eyes.
TV is the accepted lie.
TV is the status quo,
The less you discover the more you know.
TV is the poor man's therapy.
TV is the moment you accept your life is over,
you've given up, given in,
Too tired to begin again
Catatonic empty stare,
I see what it's done to me.
~*~
Woke up early, eating Vosges Black Salt caramel chocolate, slowly, so slowly, even time seems to stand still. People often think I always know what to say, but actually, I usually don't have a clue. I just sit there, exasperated, feeling dumb. I cheat, I dive into a sound, or an emotion, and I let it write for me. I should seek therapy, there must be something wrong with me. But, honestly, that sounds like way too much work, I don't think I could even pursue it.
So I sit, watch TV, experience slow entropy, seeking inspiration inside of me, in spite of me. And hope for a door to appear, a door back to me.
~*~
~*~
Sometimes I wonder how I'll feel if my father died. Will I feel anything? If I don't, does that make me a monster? He hasn't made an effort, and I have so many times, and it's never been reciprocated. Is there anything there, any ties that bind us? Or has a father been replaced by some new construct that I've created? Can it withstand death itself? Or will it crumble under the weight of some longing? For what I feel should have been? I don't know.
TV is the accepted lie.
TV is the status quo,
The less you discover the more you know.
TV is the poor man's therapy.
TV is the moment you accept your life is over,
you've given up, given in,
Too tired to begin again
Catatonic empty stare,
I see what it's done to me.
~*~
Woke up early, eating Vosges Black Salt caramel chocolate, slowly, so slowly, even time seems to stand still. People often think I always know what to say, but actually, I usually don't have a clue. I just sit there, exasperated, feeling dumb. I cheat, I dive into a sound, or an emotion, and I let it write for me. I should seek therapy, there must be something wrong with me. But, honestly, that sounds like way too much work, I don't think I could even pursue it.
So I sit, watch TV, experience slow entropy, seeking inspiration inside of me, in spite of me. And hope for a door to appear, a door back to me.
~*~
~*~
Sometimes I wonder how I'll feel if my father died. Will I feel anything? If I don't, does that make me a monster? He hasn't made an effort, and I have so many times, and it's never been reciprocated. Is there anything there, any ties that bind us? Or has a father been replaced by some new construct that I've created? Can it withstand death itself? Or will it crumble under the weight of some longing? For what I feel should have been? I don't know.
So true how television media and even social networking is a part of the downward sliding of interpersonal relations/communications in our American society.