On The Summer of '25

I had vision for the summer, an unsaid vision. A vision that looking back I realise was purely driven by the pleasure principle. Most things in my life are about that, however I found it increasingly hard to abide by it. you see all these people, and these shows, and people doing things solely driven by pleasure, and you think, no no you judge, “ah that must be an easy life to live” but I tried to and... it’s hard to live as a pleasure whore?

Growing up seems to mean growing pains. I do not know how to acommodate all my relationships and my obligations, with my beingness, within my beingness. Or am I just acting like a kid who’s unwilling to learn because he’s afraid. afraid of what? that word.. accomodate?

2 months ago i had this embarressing day. i kept on puffing and lighting and puffing, one cig after the another. it honestly wasn’t even that embaressing now that i think about it. i just wanted to punish myself for some reason. I didn’t know what to say, at its premise I felt like I had nothing to say.

I struggled immensly with feeling a lack of control this summer, and it has a taken shape in a change of routines and my relationships & ways of being, the consolation of which a rut, that didn’t even leave time to punish myself.

My self dependance seems to have taken an ugly form, slowly mutating into self disposal. anything outside the reach of my beanbag need not be paid attention to these days. I’ll get to it when I get to it. I am not a “cook”, no I am also not a “writer”, no i don’t know why I got a bit triggered when you said that, and no that's not why I stopped writing, and no I do not know how to beautify my room, even though I have teared off all the old decorations down. they reminded me too much of seventeen & innocence. this skeleton of a room I have now is all that I have the means for. skeletons. they seem to be all im leaving behind lately.

These skeletons keep reminding me that shame still sits still, in this room somewhere, in me somewhere. I am embaressed about certain things. still. Sometimes I feel a pang of jealousy when I see a perfect little nook of friends in the cafe I work from, or some people on the internet, and Ive self-doubts regarding my place in the world and I do not know where to go with these feelings.

I need to actively channel a lighter more mature, happier, sillier, version of me in these moment and remind myself, I have a dog, my soap smell great, it’s just a body, this moment too shall disappear like that smell from childhood. All that will be left is just these glimpses... these skeletons of it, this, us, that... these skeletons keep reminding me...

In these moments of reassuring myself I feel like a grown-up tending to myself like a child who’s seventy percent cotton and eighty years old, a rag doll, passed down the drains of the years, emanting a stench of memories that transfromed it permanently, but just enough that it remains recognizable to people who have been in his orbit for the yrs.

we got this tho - me and the characters that live on forever in my head.

But no the friendlessness that might be is not what actually gets to me. I have dreamt of being alone in a/my kitchen in mismatched clothes, sometimes shirtless, smoking, making coffee writing about how “my” kitchen would become “a” kitchen one day, my friend, now a friend, and perhaps one day, a girl, my girl, (until then) just a life of flipping these a/my switches of it, this, us, that hoping one of them sticks. Sometimes I question myself if the solidity i have built in myself has kept me from leaning on someone else, and kept them from leaning on me.

Yk what gets to me is the utter silence that never fails to deliver in the times of hopelessness and crisis. I can stare at the brown wooden door, this peice of glass slab in my pocket, the ugly pink stain on the wall... stare at them as much as I want but nothing moves inside it, sends me a signal, not even of the hovering craizness in the room each time I step in it. I am trying, trying to forgive, trying to forget, trying to begin all over again, again.

“Again” cause the current life I lead is gonna offer me nothing except a regular scehdule to fit into my hours. Those hours will turn into days, and days into year. No I don’t want to just “fit”. I am still trying to figure out how can I have so much to do but feel that I do not have much to do at the same time. I do not have much that I demand, that I crave. I want to stop running away from from everything and find something to run towards.

It’s funny I deleted all the photos and the texts but well these transactions on my statements that I came across as I was going through all of my past years statements to file my taxes. nostalgia isn’t the feeling.

It’s kinda hard not to think about the past and the people who are left there you know. But then what’s the point in dwelling unproductively on its memory. I’ve made peace with it and the distribution of love, time, and joy in the world. Yeah, I’ll always of couse want it: the connection, the recognition, the softness, the intimacy... i will want until the want becomes my companion itself. maybe it already has.

Clips, ive been collecting clips this whole summer, in the hope that perhaps i’ll piece them together, find the perfect jeff buckley or bob dylan song with a good uplifitng change in rythm and sync it with the compilation hoping the moments all fit right. hope. that it all fits right.

I probably never will get to it, like all those clips from spain that are there on my phone. The notification constantly popping up on my phone tells me I need to free up my space. but i can’t stop the urge to collect. what exactly am I collecting though? cause when I watch these back, nostalgia isn’t the feeling. its... well I really can’t name it yet.

I can’t find a word for this feeling and it’s driving me nuts. But then it’s driving me nuts at how easily I am driven to nuts and am failing to enjoy the art of romanticizing the small and erractic bits of this existence before someday a car hits or I get cancer or I die from drinking super glue. I find myself often ending up spending the end of the day watching something mind numbing, or thinking of things. things and things and things, so many things and so little time.

You know this feeling, it arrives like a date on an outdated calendar, over and over. Just a date - not conveyed in numbers but in phases of the moon. I am listening to this damien rice song as I am typing. Typing things that im realizing SHOULD prolly end up in a journal, too private, too boring, flaccid perhaps. But well I have always been more of a WOULD guy than a SHOULD guy.

this, this feeling, it’s like me sitting on a rock across the road in summer, typing this, thinking about the transcience of summer. even while im right at the heart of it, i just cant get to the heart of it. stuck.

yes stuck. not by force, but by choice. bc no i don’t want to loose what i learned there, and no i dont want to move on. and no i don’t want closure. and no i don’t want to recover, if this recovering means loosing what happened to me. i keep talking about my old self but no I dont want (that) to be changed back. i dont want to return to obliviousness that i partook in before that. you have to hold things open in order to nurture whatever new awareness was born there. but then how do i loose something as abstact as awareness?

There are certain concepts and beliefs that I hold close to my heart. One of them is – I do get a sign when things are going to get bad. It is a little tough to explain, but it is such a clear experience.

I’ve been lately craving some slowness, deliberateness.. I have the urge to just pack my camping gear and disappear in the highland woods for a few days. Maybe on my birthday. I’ll take those GOT books with me, i’ve been finding them an aboslute delight for my imagination. it gets easier to trancend into those dreamscapes where something horrible happens, but it happens in a place that is rich.

but then books end, and there are things and things and things and other books to get to. Ow well, that life... see you soon.

Born to be a little spoon
Forced to be a big spoon,
Kay.