While I generally maintain that creating and maintaining a commonplace book is a great deal different than a writer’s notebook, H.P. Lovecraft’s “Commonplace Book of the Weird” is still a favorite piece. So, here’s a patched-together list of things written down in my phone’s note app, on scraps of paper on my nightstand, and in the margins of my school notes. None of them are terribly significant by themselves, though they are the usual source of inspiration for posts.
Poetry is constraining and my words are an extension of myself.
Instability kills lab rats, but I’m not dead yet.
Paper people. Seem too good to be true, not sure what is underneath. Do you get to know them?
Being aware of falling out of a crush, yet not doing anything about it. Confusing emotions.
What’s the difference between fake deep and real deep? Fake it ’til you make it. Waking up to reality.
Separation as a coping method. Control as a coping method. Knowledge as a coping method.
Everyone has a project. Most of them don’t know what that project it. Paraphrase of a teacher’s teacher.
Do you wink at other people? (Added at a later date: Yes.)
Down to the quick. Abusing fidget toys and nervous habits. Destroyed mechanical pencils.
Trainspotting. A hobby?
That weird feeling you get because you’re wearing baggy shorts.
How much do you believe that fantastical, magical things can happen? How much is hope, and how much is sheer delusion, sheer insanity? Is it normal to wish for happiness? For flight? For unicorns? For invisibility?
Just at one of those introspective ages where everything is a big philosophical question.
Building one great puzzle to look back upon as I lay dying. Made up of all these little pieces of information, ideas, emotions.
Vaguely defined relationship: vague little pecks on the cheek, vague cuddles, vague conversations drifting off into oblivion. Nothing defined, yet nothing questioned. Brain fog and sleep deprivation coming not to a point, but to a slow settling.
But the masks we’ve worn for so many years are so comfortable, if feels like our skin will tear off like paper when we try to lift them off. A masquerade ball lasting for far longer than ever intended, with no real purpose.
People say I’m self aware but I never feel like I have a good sense of myself.
Squid in the deep blue ocean.
Aimless love letters.
I never meant to be so harsh, this was just the way I was always talked to.
Language connoisseur: sorry for the word salad, it pairs best with our melodious wines.
So easily wounded. So easily lead into the valley of the shadow of death. So easily left counting numbers and patterns, hoping for salvation. Can you not see that I am a fragile wretch? Can you not offer some kind of mercy? …At least don’t yell at me.
Epilepsy is the common factor for those who successfully make the transition into AI. (A/N: this references a long-term project that would provide more context.)