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/lit/ - Literature


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>> No.15744936 [View]
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welp this thread made me feel great about myself.

If you've see where it can go, always keep in mind where it can lead.
Sometimes I feel as though I don't enjoy things unless I'm inebriated but deep down I know I can't enjoy higher persuits when I allow myself to be like this. As I get older the hangovers get worse. It's a fucking deep dark pit that is impossible to get out of once you're stuck down there. It's hard for me since I quit smoking weed because I feel as though I've used substances to relax since I've been a teenager. I've pretty much thrown away my intelligence and any hope at a decent career by thinking fuck it for the last 10 years, but I don't even enjoy my hobbies without drink or drugs and I feel like that it's the only thing I have in common with my friends.


>> No.12358803 [View]
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My estranged mother has tried to kill herself 6 times in the last month and I don't feel like I can ignore her calls, but I know she'll only continue the same destructive behaviors as always. I feel though as answering her is only giving her what she wants and validating her cries for attention.

>> No.12355241 [DELETED]  [View]
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>tfw masturbated to pornography rather than working on my novel

>> No.11541218 [View]
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I was like you, then I realised I had no talent, and decided to jump on the hamster wheel like everyone else. It's nice to not have any illusions anymore as to my own abilities, though it hurts a little when I think of all the time I wasted trying to convince myself of talent that never existed. I'm not saying that you lack talent anon, just that you be as honest to yourself as possible. Don't sick countless hours you'll never get back into a pipe dream if you can possibly avoid it. Writing poetry is fun, but so is having great job security, a house, and not having friends that in all likelihood, desperately want, but can't muster up the courage to tell you that you can't write, and to get a real job.

>> No.11409505 [View]
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>how many books you’ve read this year
>your current read

>> No.11286951 [View]
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My dad had this tick where he'd blink really fast if he was angry. My clearest memory of him is one in which I was much younger, maybe 6 or 7. At that age I played soccer in the seasonal youth league. We had games in the park near my house. During one of the seasons, my coach at the time said both himself and the assistant coach wouldn't be able to make one of the games we had. My father volunteered to step in as a substitute coach for the game. Now, I wasn't very good at soccer. I wasn't even average. But my father expected me to be. I unknowingly connected my father's approval and love to my performance in soccer. Growing up I always knew my family's love and support was always conditional. This isn't something I'm trying to hold against them, by the way. In a sea of mystery meat, the unyielding hurricane that is the kwa, I had to make a name for myself, and validate all of the efforts my parents had made in their lives. Looking at "their lives" from the perspective of my life just made it seem like everything they ever did ultimately culminated in the conception of me, which gave support to my theory anyways. So, season after season, I signed up for soccer, I went to all the practices, and all the games, just to do nothing of note year after year. I think I averaged a single goal a season, if at all. You can see why my father was eager to coach the team. His wanton desire to see his son achieve anything drove him to seize the reigns of the chariot of victory itself. If I couldn't achieve anything, then he'd force me to with his hand at the helm of my crumpled soul. The day of the game was punctuated with rain. When we ran, mud kissed at our shins like drunken butterflies, and when we stopped, our blood retreated away from our skin and the wind chipped away at our hearts. My father had me on the field for the entirety of the game, constantly shouting commands at me. I felt like a colossal bomber shot to pieces, condemned to death, gliding in lazy morbid circles as the pilots in the cockpit frantically shouted commands to the crew, cursing the neutered bird as they fell. It’s all blended together now, inch for inch, breathe for breathe, we were beaten, but I lost. I remember as I walked across the field as the game ended to meet my father. He stared down to me, simmering, blinking rapidly. His eyes brewed hatred and fire, the color red stoked and sparked as he blinked. I wonder now how his gaze didn’t melt my small body there, leaving nothing but ash, immediately washing me away in little rivulets of sadness.

>> No.11185544 [View]
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Write what’s on your mind

>> No.10873600 [View]
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This is a bitter pill to swallow: it's my dream was to become a professor and lecture at a university -ANY university. I feel like I could do it, but discouragement and doubt have been steadily preying on my mind as I continue to approach graduation. I don't want to let myself or my family down.

>> No.10858162 [View]
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What do women in their early/mid 20s enjoy reading?

>> No.10816971 [DELETED]  [View]
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What is the literary lifestyle?

>> No.7507862 [DELETED]  [View]
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I've planning to quit.
Pretty much everyone in my family, with the exception of my parents, complain about how useless, lazy, and worth-for-nothing I am. The fact that I never had a job (23 y/o) is what they usually bring up, with the fact that I hardly care about family matters that seem to upset everybody.

I've been thinking about dropping college and getting a job, not to please them (although it seem that's what they want) but to move away soon and never speak to them again.

>nice blog entry m8
I'm sorry

>> No.7401473 [View]
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Guess I missed the boat on the good shit.

>> No.6957789 [View]
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>> No.6464321 [View]
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>tfw severe hemorrhoids
>tfw asshole will never look the same
>tfw qt patootie I've been speaking to keeps mentioning how she wants to rim me

>> No.5547836 [View]
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>tfw living in it's sister-city, El Paso
>tfw no one reads here or knows of Bolano's work on Juarez

Even here at the university, the student body is medical / business oriented. The literature staff is tenured and old, out of date and lazy. Everywhere in the city, there is the scent of trans-international corruption: local politics, school systems, business practice, drug trafficking, sex trade and especially all of the missing-persons cases that consistently go unannounced on any of the three local news stations.

I'm a repo man. I live here alone, with no real friends or family, and am always under anxiety and the sense of alienation from a people and culture that value the comfort of never knowing, or ever wanting to know. Everyday here I have to find a way into the homes of people who tend to be illegal families, and take away all of their belongings--mostly furniture and appliances. Everyone here knows what happens at night, under the tables and out of sight, but it's one of those horrors of a forgotten desert tribe--to walk among it and feel as if the tribe has forgotten it's own existence.
Born and raised in hell and I'm trying to climb out.

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