Romanticise your life in a few sentences

~"Once again dreams of cheating with her return. I hold her close but at the last moment ashamedly turn my lips away from the kiss that would be the dealbreaker."~

"Never ever do that to me again she screamed breaking window glass"

And once again the young man masturbates with honor. The moon that night is the color of his semen.

Bloodmoon?

Lying there lonesome, imagining suicide, romanticizing death.

He sat there, coffee in hands, trying to convince his leg to rest so he could work. Today, not to-morrow. TODAY.

Dreaming of romanticised visions of ages past he is killing time, listening to the bitter sweet sounds of abstract meloncholy and waiting for death.

As sperm shot yet again out of his genital, a sense of pride came in. It was a bold act of defiance to waste himself thusly while all around the streets myriads of tempting vulvas were roaming. Thinking of all the half-souls he denied a similar meaningful existence from, he smiled. There was no bit of shame in being untouched at his age.

He could refract an idea which everyone thought simple into a hundred others, as the prism does with sunlight, each finer than the other, then gather together a host of others to recreate the white light of the sun, where others merely saw disorder and confusion.

It's time for my diary desu:

>I would like to write something of more importance very much; but I detest the grey street where I live and the dirt in the curbs and the middle class delusion that people seem to mistake for purpose around here. What can be said about the qualities we possess? Without the expectations that have weighted me down there will be nothing left for my surroundings to latch onto, nothing left for me to fall back on. But I already know that it will be the same everywhere and nobody should ever care about the most weak or ugly or overlooked, people who bury their hopes at birth, most of it. It's no question of watching open-mouthed or casting my eyes down. Maybe there's only people who walk on air, people who never face left or right and only the silent shame of childhood and birth remains palpable. The beatings and ridicule are good enough for me, the old days in the class room with the drooping shutter and the glaring sunlight. I have no pity with the children who will be forced through school again and again but my former illusions and baseness have left me disgusted with myself. The truth is I find it hard to go on. Days fly by and I can recognize some green spots on the ground underneath all that dirt and meshed-up snow sometimes. Sometimes I'll stop and watch the sparrows and the chickadees and they're dull and quiet. I think I'll be dull and quiet too, for a while.

Publish your diary desu

Wow we are so glad to have you on Veeky Forums intellectual supremo

I'm so despondent about everything. Everything I try goes totally wrong. There's no escape from this hole here. I feel drained. So far, I still haven't found a real purpose in life. Sometimes, I'm afraid to get out of bed in the morning. There's nothing to get up for.

thanks senpai

He sits in limbo, neither with her nor apart. The dissonance of the hard decisions ahead ruin any chance for a peaceful life. At his wits end he surrenders to the calming grey of escapism. The crisis of introspection averted for another day.

Though his was a life cradled in emptiness and inauthenticity, he had no need for pity; true, he knew no genuine happiness, but he also never knew sincere grief. In this comfortable, half-lived fashion, he spent his days.

"Of the wide world I stand alone and think."

me dunkey

He sat browsing the internet, reminding himself that this session of browsing the internet was simultaneously a means of passing time until his next experience of consuming alcohol with his unenlightened friends as well as a means of passing his time until he achieves a platform in life that would allow him to prove to others what he knew to be true of himself all along--that he was better than them and he would be remembered.

The stories made him happy. The little ones he read and the big ones he dreamed. He'd have to be up soon for work. Maybe just another glass of whiskey first.

My life? "Romantic"? That's a laugh

Doom sits in gloom in his room.

Solitude after years of blissey companionships. Just a different kind of joy.

I suppose procrastination is an art -- it certainly is a vice.

Kąpie sie bo jest sobota. Woda okazuje sie być zimna. Przeklinam ją najgorszymi słowami, przeklinam sytuacje, w której człowiek po tygodniu pracy musi sie kąpać w zimnej wodzie. Tłumacze sobie to w ten sposób: skoro nadal tam pracuje, to znaczy, że jedynie na zimną wode zasługuje. Gdybym był jakkolwiek wartościowy, to już dawno robiłbym coś lepszego za lepszą stawke, mniej godzin tygodniowo. Myje zęby, wypluwam wode razem z krwią. Macam jezykiem rane na policzku. Pewnie zrobiłem ją sobie szczoteczką. Widok krwi przypomina mi o tym, jak niszczeje pod wzgledem zarówno fizycznym jak i mentalnym.
Myśl o tym, że w poniedziałek znów pójde do pracy napełnia mnie cichą desperacją. Wejde do dusznego, ciasnego pokoiku, usiąde przy stanowisku, naprzeciw kolegi. Jego przeciętny humor pogorszy sie, gdy zobaczy mój zły humor, którego już nie próbuje ukryć. Z niechęcią, zobowiązany do przerwania ciszy zapyta mnie, jak mi minął weekend. Najchętniej powiedziałbym, jak bardzo nie mam ochoty z nim rozmawiać, ale ustanowie kompromis między prawdą a normalnością w słowach "nie za dobrze, nic pozytywnego mi sie nie przydarzyło. W dodatku strasznie nie chciało mi sie dzisiaj przychodzić." Odpowie mi coś na to, ale ja już tego nie będe słyszał. Ustawie sobie w miejsce jego kwesti pewne piękne słowa, pełne sensu i napawające nadzieją. Dajmy na to, przyrówna kierownika naszego zakładu do Jezusa i wyjaśni, że musze chodzić jego śladami, chociażby przeszkody przesłaniały znacznie te nieliczne nagrody. Apostołowie chociaż widzieli cuda. Ja widze tylko niewyraźną perspektywe wypłaty na koniec miesiąca. A może wcale nie jestem uczniem, tylko podłym faryzeuszem i dlatego znak nie zostaje mi objawiony? Gdybym tyle sie nie spóźniał to na pewno wielka wdzięczność społeczeństwa i szacunek samego kierownika, jak konfetti spłyneły by na mnie. Tak to sobie tłumacze

Minuit. Parcourant des yeux les rangées clairsemées, il observe distraitement ses camarades d'infortune, appréciant cette proximité distante que crée la fréquentation assidue d'une même bibliothèque, avant de rassembler ses affaires.
Dans l'obscurité de sa chambre, les douleurs se font plus insistantes.

A haiku:

A quite tired bro
Waiting hard for work to end
Madden is his prize

Bit of an odd choice, don't you think?

It
only makes
sense in
context (or in quotations)

"She spends hours just lying there, on her back, all day long, staring at the ceiling. She does this for days sometimes."
"What for? For what reason?"
"Who knows?"

"Sometimes it feels like life is the painting and I'm the only real person, stuck inside of it."

Life feels to me
As if I had dipped my hand
In a gentle stream

I think I love you for this
Im saving

What's in a shitpost? He never thought himself adroit enough to give any large contemplation to the fact, to the specific components making up the object he had lavished attention on for years without end. It had come naturally to him, yes. No, though he was scarce to admit it, shitposting clearly was a skill aggrandized over time; humans are not born with the skill to shitpost, merely just with the skill to shit-fling. The man who types these posts now is neither aware of this nor the rapid deterioration of his talents so prized by his parents and teachers years before. Talent is instead wasted on another meme, yes, another, that elicits a laugh from no one but himself, and himself would be the first one to admit that it feels good to do so.

But alas, it is not over! What more is there to say when we have already constructed a complete caricature of this character? The man gives as much care to esteemed writers on the board as the birds to the skies or the ape to his wit. That is, they are aware, HE is aware, more aware than possibly anyone he knows, of accumulating knowledge of books he will never read, stanzas he will never complete, and wisdom that he will never attain. All the same, he decides to not lift himself out of his reverie, to not reconstruct his life from a singular philosophy, but to remain in his stupor as if he is crucifying himself before mankind. He dares one man, any man, to have started as many bait threads or replied with more "my diary desus" than he. He is the master of his own craft, he is the master of cutting open leftists and rightists alike with scintillating yet self-contradictory prose, he is the master of the frogposting, he is the master of directing to reddit, and he is the master of generating controversy in one sample of the population like the world as has never seen lest it be from Buonaparté himself. A guillotine in the black of night and a pale flicker of a candle in the sunlight. And at the end of the day, he will drift back into the protection of the anonymous and his very presence will be less than the smear of a bad memory.

...

Added you to this

The temperate forest rolled on for miles in every direction. He dwelled in the center of it.

The only thing he had to chose in his daily routine was either keep sleeping or masturbate.

He feels choked unable to be the origin for a work and sticks to piecing together old scenes.

This seems like a fun project. Any other things saved up?

Literally just started it this thread

Got any images for me that would suit the nature of it?

Dying with a broken heart once again.

I'm kinda new here so I don't have anything saved up, but I'll keep an eye out if I see you again.

In dreams, I am a force of nature.

Works for me, thanks

Youre a straightforward guy aint ya?

Taking a shower. Cleaning my asshole. Slight discomfort. I poke a finger in a bit, less than a centimeter, wipe it. Something is on my finger. Doesn’t seem like poo. Hold it close to my face. Sniff it. Smells nutty. Maybe part of a nut I ate. Never saw it in my poop before. Still has its nutty smell. Felt like i was picking my teeth and a piece of nut was stuck to it which I normally eat, and for a split second my brain thought about eating this one from my pooey finger. I probably shouldn’t. By the time i thought this I accidentally inhaled it. It was in my mouth, went right down my throat. I began puking. Loud. Everywhere. Onto the wall, running down into the tub, into the shower drain.

“Are you okay?” Wife asked not knowing what was going on. Best I rinse this off the walls before she sees or smells it, and if she does see it definitely do not tell her what happened.

I rinse my mouth with the shower water and throw up more, rinse again. She smelled the puke and came in.

“I threw up, sorry”.

I wake up with feelings I am not aware enough to give names to. I just know my eyelids want to stay shut. After spending the last two years being as free as an escaped convict I ended up here sleeping on a couch in a living room. I would have been a convict if I had not come home. My mother tells me to not forget to deliver food to my brother. He's about twenty minutes away. He will spend every dollar he begs for on heroin. She wants him to know she's waiting for him to come back home as well. She will wait until her family is together again. I think she will be waiting a long time.

"I am at the influx of situations that deal neither well nor limitedly."

He stood back up.

"She loved and lost. And lost. And lost. And when she could not bear to lose again, she sought out another love to lose. If she had to fall, she would dive."

"He stares out of the frost covered window, watching as the car pulls out of the drive way one last time. 'I love you, and I miss you' he breathes onto the glass, a single tear streaming down his face"

Honestly made me feel something

This thread is ironic right? Lots of cringe.

Some people really do feel something even if writing it out sounds juvenile and shitty, user.

Cruelly, the rain did fall
ironic california would have a 100 year storm
and nothing inside changes
and i soldier forward
only wetter

I turned myself into kindling. In the hope that one day there would be an inferno, then I too would flame.

Sometimes I realize with a startle that I am alone, and that I have been alone. I'm briefly prompted to wonder at the nature of progress, dismissing the change as suddenly as it came, while I return to routine; but then a chance encounter upon the 4am fridge-run...the window near and open, a drunk's laughter on the breeze, the night smells of spring come early and of promise perennial. I close the window.

I don't know why I do it.

I don't know why I don't.

I don't know which is right,
and sometimes even which simply is.

I am uneasy.

"I can't stop laughing, and I don't want to either!"

I woke up too late to do anything today. I'm staying up that I might avoid the drudgery doubled tomorrow. This, for 25 years.

I like it.

His panic rose in a coil that seemed at once apparent and unknown. The army was his ambition, and his fear of death was being overturned by his fear of apathy.

All I feel is lacks and absences. My life is simply treading water at the surface of "unbearable," and all my actions and errands in the world are concerned with lifting me back up to this surface whenever I'm dragged beneath it. Every time I almost drown, and my animal panic instincts lift me back up, as soon as my conscious self recovers, it secretly wishes the instincts had failed this time. But it also lacks the courage to just let go, stop treading, and sink.

There's no breather, no vacation, and no end in sight. In love, I feel anxiety knowing that someday it will die. And when it dies, I feel despair knowing there is no positivity to escape into. Empathy and morality are obligations with no reward, only punishments for failing to live up to them. If there's such a thing as contentment I can honestly say I've never felt it.

This is what happens when nihilism is intimately understood as truth. Living a virtuous life is its own reward, robbed of this man is is little more than a beast worthy of equal parts contempt and pity.

The cold mountain air reddens my cheeks, and reminds me that I am home. I bring my stiff hands together, feeling the callouses rub, before picking my axe up off the ground and heading for the hills. Behind me my bed lies cold and I try not to think of the woman that was supposed to share it. I look again at the distant mountains and ask myself if today they seem a little closer.

Thanks
I dont know if that means your life is good or bad though, from your perspective

Something about yours makes me very much like it

You made me motivated to not do this

The wondering continues, as it has over those years; ''Is the clock going backwards or forward this time?'', but he knew that every time he asked that, it was already too late. The wrong choice has been chosen, the wrong path followed. He keeps asking himself the same question, from time to time. ''Is the clock of my life ticking onwards or backwards this time?''. Time, and time again. At times, he would realize the insanity he had trapped himself in. The web of bad choices, the addiction to seeking comfort within himself for doing things he know he shouldn't have. And so, he asks, awaiting for another response, for something he hadn't noticed, a way to make the unworkable work. But everytime he asks that is the same. ''The clock is going backwards. You are doing things wrong. You an i, the echo in your mind, know it.'' . He would stare at the nothingness for a bit, and realize that by keeping this habit, the clock would just keep going backwards, his improvement stagned.

Yet, after the brief reflection that happens inbetween the binge self-questioning, he asks one again. ''Is the clock going backwards?''

''Yes it is.''

''Why don't you fix it?''

And like it hasn't occurred countless times before, he stands in silence, just to ask again right after; ''Is the clock going backwards? Maybe i'm seeing it wrong. Is it?'' Yes, it is.

It's been for a long time. A long, long time.

Even at my worst, I'm not half as sad as you fucks.

How do you do it user?

Im actually a very optimistic person too, its funny that Im so depressive

Thanks

Having amassed a small fortune, he spent the last of his days as a Hermit, devoting his time to philosophy and coffee.

woah, I'm famous now!

The record skips and once again, the bitter sting of a glass against his arm. The pages flutter in the wind, unread. The voices call, unheard. He is gone.

Never do anything out of hunger. Even eating.

For years I have been writing dead letters to myself.

Przynajmniej staraj się używać 'ę' na końcu czasowników. 'Kąpie' czy 'Tłumacze' sprawiają naprawdę brzydkie wrażenie, a czasem po prostu są trzecią formą czasownika zamiast pierwszej.

Letting people think you care is a skill. A visaed of friendliness hides the deepest pools of festering venom. A silver tongue doesn't leave a puncture wound
and when you are the person they think to ask for help then they are your enemy no more but your pawn. We are given titles like parent, friend, boss. those
server only to pacify the stupid and caring. Your purpose is what you set it as. If there is a purpose given to use by some mystic or real force then why
subscribe to it anyway. A top heavy statue will fall so I live simply to pass the time until I die. A resting giant. Waiting for death. Should I
awake my purpose might change but for now I am waiting.

dzięki, postaram się

"haha poo poo pee pee :D" - wise frof

Only art makes human beauty endure

Absorbed by his bed and embraced by the warm blankets covering his body, he stares at the posters of Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain and Ian Curtis on his wall, wondering when it will be his turn.