Write whatever's on your mind

I have no friends to drink with. Only have three real friends, two of them are straight edge and the other one has too inconsistent a time schedule to do anything with.

I'm pretty sure the Internet is the home of the losers and failures of society, that come and post because they have nothing going on in their lives, and therefore, the overall attitude of the Internet is overly pessimistic and not representative of reality.

It's a self selected group.

All I see on the Internet are people bitching about the 'lost generation'. Bitching about no jobs. Bitching about how women only fuck 10's. Bitching about everything.

Should I fucking leave this place? I mean, I'm in school for compsci for christ's sake.

Dude I think you think you write well, but I'm just telling you, you don't.

Well, it depends on which part of the internet you're talking about. Veeky Forums is filled with losers, obviously, I'm one of them, but at the same time there are other parts that are vibrant with creativity and reasons to be inspired. Choose where to spend your time wisely when on the internet, more or less.

I had one great love in my life rejected me and now I don't know what to do or see a reason to keep on keepin' on. All I want is to become a troubadour of sorts, someone going from town to town performing songs and all that stuff but I don't have the willpower nor the intelligence to do so without being severely unprepared. I have no hope. Yay to the yay.

Thanks David Foster Wallace

Are you proud after writing shit like this?

and then I asked her
“why do you think we’re here?”
she paused, and said nothing
it was as if she was the One
creating the silence

this was her answer
then, finally, she responded
“what makes you think that we’re here?”
she paused again, and continued
“I may be here, but you are not.”

I didn’t understand
“what do you mean ‘I’m not here’?”

she gazed into my eyes without fear
and said
“well, do you feel like you’re here?”

I didn’t understand
“what do you mean feel?”

she touched my hand
as if to reassure me
that I was real
“if you knew the answer to that question,
then you would know
why we’re here.”

suddenly I realized
she was, in fact, the One
that was creating the silence

she was from a place
much louder than here

what I perceived as silence
was simply her way of saying
“I love you.”

she understood me better
than I understood myself
she understood that I was simply
incapable
of truly hearing what she had to say

so I screamed louder
not understanding, that she could hear me
“you’re hurting me!” she cried out
I did not realize
how much power
my voice had

“Good.” I said
they love in my Being
slowly became
contempt

and so I broke the silence
over
and over

“I HATE you!”

I was unable to feel
the weight
of my own words

and so she answered
the only way she knew how
she made the silence so loud
that I could no longer hear
my own voice

however
I could not realize this
so I began to believe
that I was mute
unable to say
anything at all

until one day
something else happened

it was an experience
I could not discern if
it was a voice or
it was a feeling

and I did not know
if it was mine or
it was hers

and softly
it reminded us why we’re here

“I miss you.”

"I feel lonesome when you're around/I feel lonesome when you're a-round/I never feel lonesome when I'm by myself."

Is it surprising
To find myself alone again
On another Friday night
not sad, no--in fact, the opposite
passionate
in sweet pain

It's not sad to feel something
It's not sad to wonder why I'm always antagonizing conversation and people all seem so distant, like their own islands in the ocean, just drifting away, and they don't need me, but I need them
It's not sad to feel pain
It's not sad to need people

It's sad to feel you don't need them

hey sam

she thinks to herself
“was I in love?”

she knows that the boy loved her
he loved her more than he loved himself
and that was the problem

the boy used his love
to isolate himself from that which made him happy

she thought to herself
“how could I love a boy who loves me more than himself?”

it seemed an impossible task
but she tried
and she tried
but eventually
she realized she wasn’t in control of love

she couldn’t love the boy
until he truly loved himself

so she left, and with her, she took the boy’s heart
it was an accident
she didn’t mean to take it
“it was a gift” she thought
she wanted to give it back

so she gave it back the only way she knew how

she tried to force the boy to love himself
but the boy finally realized

there was nothing there to love

and so he tried to take his heart back
that’s when he finally realized
he hadn’t given her his heart

he had given her back her own heart

he had taken it from her
a lifetime ago

I shot the stars out
onetwothree
just like Buffalo Bill.
Then I shot my head in
now I'm defunct
And I guess that's that.

Sometimes I feel like the wait is worth it. Like maybe once I see her face every doubt will fade; every heartbeat lightened the moment our fingers intertwine.
Yet, sometimes still, when I am lonesome, or drunk enough to be honest I think that the damn truth of it all is you think of me as an engine -- something to simply command, with no thought of recognition.
Yesterday I turned 21. I saw a beautiful place in Illinois, with my friends. And all we did was climb the earth, smoke weed, and have the happiest time of my life.
But even still,
as I overlooked the skyline,
knowing that two feet from me was a welcoming edge,
waiting to engulf me.
Even still,
I thought of you.

The problem with darkness is that no one can see you in it.

Sometimes I feel like the wait is worth it.
Like maybe once I see her face every doubt will fade;
every heartbeat lightened the moment our fingers intertwine.
Yet, sometimes still, when I am lonesome, or drunk enough to be honest,
I think that the damn truth of it all is you think of me as an engine --
something to simply command, with no thought of recognition.
Yesterday I turned 21. I saw a beautiful place in Illinois, with my friends.
And all we did was climb the earth, smoke weed, and have the happiest time of my life.
But even still,
as I overlooked the skyline,
knowing that two feet from me was a welcoming edge,
waiting to engulf me.
Even still,
I thought of you.

happy birthday friend

ty friend

jesus fucking christ, can we hold up for a second? Nobody has ever written well on this board. There has never been somebody who wrote and more people expressed a liking than those that condemned its quality. Maybe in poetry it sometimes happens, but never in epical prose.

So like fucking maybe change the parameters for judging anons away from fucking Joyce or whatever to "stranger on the internet". It might result in less of the same painfully boring repetition of the most pathetic bantz.

He kicked me out. I came on to him and my other friends, but not out of sexual desire. There were many girls in my life but I would never get past fucking them, and I just craved intimacy with anyone. I felt terribly sorry about it, but that just made the feeling even worse.
I walked to the train station in the middle of the night. There was only a man at the fare gates. I tried to go around him. He asked me to share my pass with him, I only glared. When he realized I wouldn't he ran and pushed us through the fare gate. He bloodied my nose when I fell and all I could manage to whimper was "hey"
I got home and masturbated, cried. The dejection and loneliness was in my stomach. I didn't drink and vomit it out, this time I shot it into a tissue. It was the best orgasm I had in months. I got off on getting fucked up.

I recently noticed that even the writers known as introverts such as Kafka, Proust, Faulkner etc. had lots of friends and social interaction and basically met new people all the time. After this realization it became more apparent to me why all my writings circle about my own character and memories which, regardless of style and construction, will just bore people. I'm reading Rilke at the moment and he advises aspiring poets to reach into their deepest inner feelings. But isolating myself emotionally just makes my writing a dizzying, mind-numbing exercise. I guess there's no passion without empathy. Basically, how does anyone make interesting friends? Where does real inspiration come from? Would be really interesting to know if anyone on here has made any experience with this kind of problem, /r9k/ virgins please don't apply.

>Nobody has ever written well on this board.
You haven't been here enough. And what that user came up with is embarrassing and should be laughed at, just as your attempt to defend it.

Oh, how I disagree. Nothing that a poet writes should be laughed at. It's deadly serious when it's coming from the heart. It may not be beautiful, and yes, it may be embarrassing, but it's never funny (unless it's trying to be)

I had friends and gave them up. They seemed to do the same, which means the feeling that I didn't need them was reciprocal. I still have my close family with whom I live. I love loneliness but I have never been fully alone for long, which everybody tells me is dreadful, but which I think I might revel in, perhaps. Or perhaps not--I have been deceived numerous times before by what seemed to be deep desires that waned after being even halfway fulfilled.

Wait: this was about inspiration and I have strayed. I'm not a writer--not even an amateur or aspiring one--I'm more of a reader. I only write patches of thoughts for myself (in other words, my diary desu). I guess what I'm saying is you don't need "interesting" friends to have empathy; perhaps you don't need friends at all as long as you had had them, or human contact at all, at some point in your life. I guess that's pretty obvious: you can't have any empathy if you're a feral child or something. Other than that, I don't think constant human interaction is needed, less so "interesting" people. That word doesn't mean anything, so it could mean everything. Therefore, there's lots of interesting stuff around at all times.

Then again perhaps I am talking out of my ass, as I have never lived in isolation. Maybe it's just me, being an unusual mix of normie and neckbearded neet, but where I live I meet interesting people and see interesting things all the time, whereof I could get my inspiration, were I to write (I lack any discernable talent though, which is something else).

It's funny how sometimes I find funny just the things that are trying hard not to be.

Who's "we" that the man pushed through the fare gates? I thought your were alone. Also, cool story (bro).

Me and the guy. I should've specified, it doesn't make sense that he would push himself too

Thank you for your thoughts.

I'd like to make myself clear for a bit. It's not that I think I lack empathy, quite contrary actually, I'm emotional to a fault in my daily life. My friendships all came to a certain point where I just became fundamentally disgusted with the other person and in those cases, my understanding came to a swift halt. Very degrading, disgustingly self-involved people. So, at this point, even if I wanted to write about my social environment I'd have to admit that I really can't understand what makes them tick because it just seems so banal to me. An author can always just write like Bret Easton Ellis but somehow I just don't think there's any merit about this sort of vain egoism. I'm kind of at a mental dead-end over here.

English isn't my first language so I'm sorry if some of the grammar in this post was incorrect.

Why do you want me to write what's on my mind? Genuine question. Genuine statement.

Is this one of the most defining threads on Veeky Forums?

jesus christ you're boring

We have arrived, and it is now time to perform our charge.

>you are all here to entertain me

i'm thinking about a lot of things, but mostly worries. I won't trouble you with them, most worries I ever hear expressed are as deep as a puddle. No, what I'd like to express is a satisfaction in one aspect of my life, a place where I don't bitch. Shitting. It's just great.

Time to perform our cringe morrlek

dreams are just convincing enough to reveal to ourselves how vulnerable we are

*shniff*

OP asks us to write whatever is on our mind, but is this not a revealing insight as to the modern Veeky Forums poster? *tugs t-shirt* He does not tell us what he himself thinks, but wants to know what everyone else thinks. I claim there is an interesting duality at play here *touches nose*, and it is firstly that OP feels sort of Lacanian insecurity. He is too afraid to tell us what he thinks, yet wants to be validated by the thoughts of everybody else. In short, he wants to take comfort and even satisfaction from the Absolute without giving anythink back. Is this not a sort of rape? See how he frames his thread, it is not a request. My gott, no manners are at play here. He is like Pavlov and we are all his dogs. *shniff* He rings his bell and makes his thread, but there is no food in the bowl, do you see? Here we are all drooling, expecting a sort of intellectual dog food, when in reality we are only giving our saliva. OP's thread is a trashcan, and right now we are all indulging in this ideology that creates nothink and in itself consumes our productive energies we might have put to better use.

My gott.

That train that teeth that warmest it move it move it Gilbery close. Forth and forth and shortened gnawing. Within that spectre within that outre alignment; lilac leather that did not slow. We wish that fish hat followed in artless styles. Cold, white, cotton.

Hi Mr John Green, big fan here

You forgot "And sho on..."

My parents were super-protective in my teenage years and now I'm a clueless, coward, beta adult.

I have only 4 people i can call friends and im pretty sure 3 of them hate my guts and one is only friends with me because he thinks that ill eventually become gay for him. I pushed all my friends and family away from when i was a junkie and now i can only find comfort in the bottom of a bottle

kafka

eating groceries makes me feel so fucking disgusting eating anything with oil or sugar too