Stream your Consciousness

Why exactly do people like reading the incoherent ramblings of writers like Virginia Woolf or DH Lawrence? To The Lighthouse was like reading page after page of gibberish.

Frankly I feel as if I'm being devoured. My entire soul and body are continually lost within themselves, with in the Ouroboros that is self-pity and self-decimation. I reach and try for some sort of meaningful relationship, some sort of meaningful growth, but it never seems to bloom to what I want.
Not that it matters, I suppose. Introspection in it's own right is a form of something, be it growth or stagnation I'm not sure, but something is always better than nothing. I've lived up past my own expectations in many ways, and in so many others fallen short.
I think most my memories of enjoyment are from the past. I think I've developed some sort of inherent daddy issue. It's odd to say, as I find issues of such nature more related to the other gender, but I can't shake this need to make someone proud. God how I wish for youth, for childhood, for a way to drown out all the care in me and replace it with joyful apathy.
Fuck it, fuck it all. I find joy in abundance, but it's never enough. It's like a drug, like some sort of addiction I'm unable to shake. It's like a needle sitting in my arm. Happiness is a warm Gun huh? In the Beatles case that was heroine, in mine what it is it? Memories?
I want a good death, I want a good life, I want solitude, and I want a wife. I want so much, so many conflicting things.

>tfw have an ever-growing document of stream of consciousness sessions spanning back nearly a year now
>tfw can look back at my exact thoughts at a particular moment in time
>tfw can start to notice patterns and things barely coming to the surface of consciousness that manifested later

You lads really need to get on this. It's one of the best techniques I've come across to understand yourself.

If I fap or if I eat my mood will change and then I'll be in just the kind of fever that either makes my words good or terrible. Do I even intend to write? I'm just in the neurotic mood where I will write something embarrassing. I just ate lots of Milo with milk, I think I'll go down to the shops to get some Digestives at some point. I'm running out of milk too. I made a quite nice passage in a last thread a little while ago no one commented on, I'm going to include it again. I was sore about it. I thought it deserved more replies and it bothered me no one even had sympathy. You all were philistines and don't deserve to be read by me. That's how I felt. I don't have time to waste reading these threads, but I spend so much time on this shit. I read my sentence over and over and felt very proud of it.
>Landlord popped in without forewarning the other day and says he's selling the house early next year, and we have to be out soon. In an appalling coincidence, a leaf friend had just moved back to the country and into the house a few days prior. That same friend I have also had homosexual feelings for since we were both 13. Feelings that had for a long time appeared withered, expended, something I'd outlasted. But in the wake of the bad news, and having to face up to the precariousness of my own situation, and the confusion about what will happen to him and whether or not I'll have an opportunity to see him again, those same feelings have returned with almost all the force of adolescent infatuation. As hopeless to the whims of the world, and to my own feelings, as a child again. It's unbearable. Every tender, sad sight tickles and pinches me. I don't know what to do with any of it - any part of myself or the world I'm in.
Anyway, today someone said something a little attacking toward me, and it shocked me and I just stood there and stammered, and then I got a little resentful, and thought of ways to make myself powerful over them, to call them out and really make them understand the situation, not to get any big ideas, to realise just what sort of position they are in. Tell them how no one really wanted them except me and they should be grateful, but the time for gratefulness is over. A real inferior. But then the thought came to me that maybe I should ask them how they are doing? They're probably stressed. I shouldn't hold an ill person's actions against them. I expect a little more indulgence for myself because of my own problems, and here I am wanting to personality erase destruction someone else over a little insult. Well. Good old. If I started complaining about everyone in my fiction it would be indulgent. The sick bourgeois would not want to publish me anyway. Sick sick sick. Sick. Vomit cums. Poz mminds. Mental illness is often a bourgeois affair and they need to be executed, the people who write about their depression like its single motherhood sort of kitchen sink "drama". Go on, tell them about your 5 hour loli fap session you fuck.

Only the dead may know what that entails; only he with a full heart may laugh a laugh filled with pleasure in shade of that question. And when what at which may one laugh is restricted: that other restricts from an absence of heart; that he may not laugh must he impose his laughlessness onto others; that his heart may not be full must he drain anothers. No - only the dead may know what that entails, and I laugh despite of it. I laugh in shade of that wall, at the absurdity of it all. I laugh at the bite so venom may leak from it, lest thy heart turn bitter, lest thy soul be deficient. And if I were unable to laugh? If I became petrified in the frost of that questionous fog? My heart would lose what turns suffering into artistry; my heart (in horror) would turn bitter. - Bitter: the deficient’s shade he casts upon those who laugh - that he cannot too, laugh.

Ill stick around and crit now

Yes, it is always interesting to go back and read something you've long since forgot - especially so if cringing counts as interest.
I read it now and enjoyed it, if that's any consolation. As for the reproach: it is best to not say anything if they are part of a network of people that has value to you. Sometimes you have to put up with a venomous person, as good as it would feel to tell them the truth. Just know that they are most likely not well or happy, and that you confronting them or not will hardly have the impact you expect. Neither will it feel as good as you wish nor will they take it as you intended. But you so much as said this yourself; it is just that I am dealing with a very similar situation recently.
>the people who write about their depression like its single motherhood sort of kitchen sink "drama"
this was a funny line user
Because To the Lighthouse is not gibberish or incoherent. It takes a certain appreciation of prose's beauty in itself and the naked honesty the style reveals. I understand how people may dislike it though.

I dont have a single thought about changing the filters on the cbox. Mic cords are annoying when the lines wont match up and your hands are freezing with your gloves on, drinking tonight. Chewy gum salty seeds harsh cigarettes and no lunch. I dont want to go for thanksgiving, but I will, I have a hunch.

I feel like this a good idea iv'e tried doing this before and didn't really like the final result, i often feel i could never be a writer so i never practice my writing which removes any chance of ever getting better. I'm writing know and I'm wondering if I'm just doing this to boost my ego. its almost like i can feel the serotonin in my brain getting released but from the ego boost of feeling like "I'm a writer" in a sense that I'm superiors to others. "I'm a writer so get out of my way all you numbskulled heathens idiots, you could never do what i do". like I'm writing for the wrong reasons but is there a wrong reason to write? i want to get better i know i probably wont ever be a novelist but it still a valuable skill to have. i may be overthinking it but that's okay i overthink everything, it makes life more interesting, like over analyzing a play except the play was made by a random number generator or a room full of monkeys with a typewriter, eventually something interesting will come out of it just as occasionally my over analyzing produces insights that no body else noticed. I've been ignoring grammar like you said OP and i think it may be a good idea, takes so much stress out of writing. right now I'm envisioning what all of you will say about my writing, most will probably skip right over it but at least 1 will read it right? why not reply if you've made it this far? I'm scared people will say its no good even though i already know its no good. I've been typing a lot faster than i normally would I'm not used to hearing the keys click clack so fast, it would be cool to type this fast without all the spelling mistakes, having actual grammar, and not being incomprehensible, i was very surprised i just spelt incomprehensible correct, it was a real shot in the dark. when i was in grade school i was taught to use the oxford comma but i don't always. you lose clarity but you gain artistic integrity. I was looking into a woman named Elizabeth of spaalbeek before coming here and couldn't find much info, she lived in 12th century and would reenact the crucifixion daily, playing both Christ and the Romans, the tormented and the tormentors. she would self mutilate and i don't understand why she would do this.

the idea to not filter knowing that im going to post this even on some insignificant thread on this shit site still seems to filter things

i will drink more wine right now
was thinking about letting this be "the moment" where I really let my brain off the chain but you know thats not feasable if thats how you spell that word...feezubul, weird word. there are a lot of words like that are only ever used in one specific phrase. disgruntled, is there a gruntled?
ive been ..this doesnt work because my thoughts are faster than my fingers, that 0.25 second gap is enough to filter yourself, and nevermind a whole second thats a different you all together
this doesn't seem prudent or helpful, I can think about all sorts but I am thinking about what would be interesting to type rather than if my thoughts were just happening outside of my typing them for this thread, this idea is flawed to begin with
it would be leagues better if the thoughts could be read by an outside party
that would be insanely interesting to be able to read a feed of the string of your own thoughts out on paper for an entire day
thought to thought to though like a ball in a mountain stream and the bird leaves no trace on the sky
i was despairing just now, i am talking in the third person...i will speak in the nearly-stream-of-consciousness then..
this doesn't work..this really rreally doesnt work

its a literary device and not an actual thing you can do
you can think of things and write them down, but thats what writing is.
stream of consciousness implies an immediacy between the tools of writing and your mind, which doesn't exist, and in that gap a filter will always, always occur. Only if you were in some kind of trance or hypnosis or psychedelic experience could you really pull this off

this is a waste of time

this is just a diary thread where you are given license to not organize your thoughts
stream of consciousness is a literary tool and not a

That's the human condition user, we'll never be able to tell people our true thoughts, not with writing, talking, painting or any physical act. Not only is writing to slow to capture all our thoughts, one after another in a perfect stream, they won't ever be able to capture the true depth of them. Woolf, Burroughs, dickens, bob Marley Picasso all failed to capture their true emotions. No writer will ever be able to. Stream of Consciousness is only as flawed as anything else human.

Thanks for the kind words user. It's interesting to put your thoughts - the ones you usually communicate only to yourself - online and feel ashamed that someone had read them, and responded to them. Don't feel bad about that or anything, it's just another sensation of the mind, and it's interesting to track. You are right about what you say. Real life doesn't play out like power fantasy 'justice'.

My girlfriend is making me a drink while I sit and browse Veeky Forums because I would rather not pick up Moby Dick which I’ve already read and am going back through because she’ll be quick and plus I’m over at her place so I’d rather spend this time thinking for myself like Schopenhauer and many others including Montaigne and Plato, both divine, would approve of. Here she comes

Sounds like a good lyric

I am a gray NEET:
Never finished university
Had one 'real' job for less then six months - need to check for how long for CV and not be Veeky Forums
Am at Kurt Cobain age, though almost made it _birthday, I would explain to people on my birthday for not getting the refference, because it's only family and pretty much much older because the rest is younger and have different intressests.
Oh and for +- a year now I work 1-3 (mostly 1) day a week, also living in with parents after my university psychosis.
The curse of oak island make me feel excitement and sadness (though not really sadness, because I'm like, you know, not really Jesus nor Buddha, because they dead and this body isn't) How come you are so 'succesfull' and so retarded at the same time. Not talking dumb, but talking amateur , without the alure that this is the real thing, even though I feel like in this case it is.

I don't want to die {edge level increased quickly to beyond Lovecraftian irony and Poe level drunk talk}, but when I do, only when I can make a great end quote, preferably recorded - televised - and banned to the gray-obscure places of the internet like liveleak. Like the 1977 pkd speech, only right before I safe a lot of people by being somehow killed in a accident resulting from my saving action. Non-painful, pretty please, or atleast not a long time suffering. Pain and than fading away, maybe then giving le ebin quote.

GTA \/|({ city with cheats was very fun, but just that, very fun for a day or two.

A pain in my back distracts me; devours me; mirrors closely the pain in my life. Life is pain, but then so is birth and death; samsara, they call it. Not my favorite eastern word by any stretch, an honor belonging to ahimsa: literally "do no harm." What a fragmented conception; more a notion than a philosophy. Whatever I do, wherever I go, I will cause some pain to other sentient beings and they, pain to me. We are born suffering, we suffer greatly and then die suffering more still along the way. There is no God, no afterlife, no divine plan or reason for any of this pain. Life and the role that it plays in this universe or any other seems an unsolved biophysics equation. Perhaps life is the universe's way of reversing entropy and each of us play a part in this cosmic counterbalancing of the scales. Or perhaps that is simply what our pitiful minds have to believe. An egotistical belief, given that each of us is less than a microbe on a speck of dust suspended in space.

How vile it is to exist only to cease. How more vile still to never know why.

How are you supposed to do this when you think way faster than you can write?

It easier to type it out, unless you're even slower with that.
Everybody thinks faster than they can type anyway, just a little flashback to a memory would take a long time to describe accurately, just typing 'I thinked of the boobs of that girl' is not only possibly not correct American, let alone English, but also not really describing what you thought.

Though, I like to talk/lip-mimic talking while 'streaming' {sounds like something out of J. Mnemonic} so You slow down naturally and hear how eldritch and profound I sound.