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/lit/ - Literature

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1000353 No.1000353 [Reply] [Original]

>ITT: Stream of consciousness writing.
Start writing with what pops in your head, and don't stop until you feel it's proper.

________________________________________

It's the unique waning of your hand that amazes me. It isn't the way it wraps around your guitar, my arm, nor the bottle and grail you drink from. Not the hold, turn, and pull of the cellar door. I dub my reason the curl due to sleep: the hand holds the secrets that you keep. Rewards and costs that you reap. Flowing of all that could seep through your fingers-- but-- just as it would, I'll cup that dream. Keep it in the seams of our reality. I would never steal it, though I covet... I just pour it back into your cupped fingers and palm in a cycle, a circle. So that when you wake, you'll see me in your vision-- without light-- by the simple reflection of hands in perpetual motion. But only as eternal as long as our devotion keeps alike, and forever... And ever... And ever... And ever. That's what defines me. You define me. I'm not mine, see? Not anymore.

>> No.1000372

A girl has a right to choose what faction of people she engages herself with, despite this many girls still try to follow the herd. A majority of males will never embrace true happiness, and thus, will never live. The right of choice is something which regarded as a necessity within our society, but to a small fraction of us it is abhorred and tabooed.

>> No.1000394 [DELETED] 

>implying anyone actually thinks like that

>> No.1000420

What the fuck does he mean what pops into my head. Ideas for writing don't just pop into existence
from nothing. Only balloons pop and that's when their time of ballooning has come to an end, not starting out. Though I suppose their termination of balloonhood is the start of their rubbishery. Being rubbish is not interesting when you are but pieces of useless rubber though, only should you be something useful like a book or food or an umbrella or overcoat and were found and taken in by some dumpster diving treasure hunter who lives in the park could being a piece of trash be interesting. Interesting so far as being a tool for a diseased Walt Whitman can be though.

>> No.1000421

If morality is to be defines as "a decision that will relieve the greatest amount of suffering, then/while creating the greatest level of happiness throughout the largest group of people" the world would be a better place. Instead of viewing our own happiness as being more important to us than everyone else's we should view all happiness as equal; a world where everyone is merely content is a far better world than a world where half the population lives in excessive happiness and the other half struggles with sadness and suffering. These ideas are not born of my mind, but I wish to nurture them, none-the-less.

>> No.1000427

This happened to me a while ago, so I'm sort of cheating. But I wrote the following on a night I don't really remember; all I can remember is being exhausted.

-----

It is unable to be explained. It was bright and it was dark. Walking along an unknown path in an unknown place in an unknown world in an unknown time. Thinking fleeting thoughts and never quite able to hold onto them. Recognizing a lonely path in the middle of nowhere that has been left untouched for so long that it should have faded from human memory. Walking and walking and not feeling the urge to sleep or eat or slow down or speed up in any sense. So lost in a place where the direction was clear. Or was it clear. Whatever it was, it was unable to be explained.

Lost in a reality that wasn't real.

In a place unable to be identified.

A person of an unknown gender walking along a path reflecting about what had happened and why they were there. Compelled to move forward and yet unable to determine why. Unable to see more than a small distance in front, but whatever measure it was was also uncertain.

Stuck in a whirlwind of uncertainty and hopelessness. Or was there hope? Hope for what, exactly?

First of all, where was this. This place that was so vague with no real details. An infinite loop of the same small stretch of a barren wasteland with no vegetation and the sun continuing to stay in the same spot in the sky. If it was dawn, it was unable to be determined... If it was dusk, it was, also, unable to be determined...

>> No.1000428

I can't help but feel that writing with the intention of writing in steam of consciousness is against the spirit of that very stream in the first place. The consciousness of man is not accustomed to operating in such a deliberate, permanent context... rather, it operates in the realm of transient thought and experimentation. Think whatever you want! Throw it away, think it out in a sandbox or blackbox, just don't hurt yourself. I think it was Nietzsche that commented on the psychological risk of philosophy-- of course, what did he know... what do I know?
_______________________

FFFFFFFUUUUUU "Field too long", so I'm breaking this shit up.

>> No.1000430

>>1000427
Vague was a specialty, rather, is the specialty of this place. Vague just like the endless expanse of empty stretching out in all directions with no day or month or year or second or hour or stretch of time. It was almost like the lone person on this path did not need to breathe. In fact... there was a pressure in his... her?... chest, lungs refusing to take in air once he or she had noticed the lack of breath.

It felt like drowning. Unable to take in air without choking on whatever it was one would image this person to be choking on. It doesn't matter.

It never mattered.

This person was never walking along a deserted road. Or were they.

It was hard to say. Hard to say because this landscape gave way to a dark, never-ending expanse of blackish blueish material. It might have been water, it was most likely not tough. Water was far far more fluid than whatever this was. It was like falling endlessly though cloth. Whatever semblance of a ground disappeared and gave way to a wild floating feeling. Not quite the stuff of dreams where it is a liberating feeling. It was the kind of feeling where someone has jumped off a building, regret for ever being born swimming through their entire existence. Falling and falling and looking down to see the ground rushing up at you. The feeling of cold dread dropping into the pit of your stomach and wishing you had not just done that. Wishing for the chance once again to repent for whatever the wrongdoing was.

That is what this falling feeling was like for this person. Except there was no ground rushing to meet him. Or her. Whichever it was.

>> No.1000432

Today is hot and I glare at the air conditioning for not doing its job, though I know full well that if it were sentient like I, it would tell me off for doing the same. My desk is a mess of scattered items with books, magazines, receipts, lists, phone numbers, invitations, brochures, newspapers and CDs purposely sitting in the way they sit now to fuck with my feng shui, creating an oppressive air that makes me impossible to work or write, hence my stream of consciousness style. I've considered cleaning it up, tidying it, stepping back and thinking of ways to stack books in the right, ideal order, but I am rooted to my chair and I can do no such thing. I can only sit and close my eyes and ignore the mess, and ignore the heat.

>> No.1000434

>>1000428
Continued:
Time after time, I find myself talking enthusiastically out of my ass as if it were the word of god, and all I get from it is the feeling that I wasted a shitload of time. Day in and day out and every time I get the chance, I'm there dumping on some stranger or other only somewhat willing party, and I conduct myself like it's the most important thing I ever had to say, and I try. I try to tell them that it's a load of bullshit. I'm trying to tell you right now. Wake up! Stop reading! Fucker... I bet your eyes jumped right to this sentence. Well, hear me out: there's nothing to hear. I don't know why I'm doing this, I don't know why I can't stop... of course I do. It's like an addiction. But hey, today is our lucky day, there's nothing going on up there today, it's just quiet. I'd make a note on that, wordwise, but somebody with a little more linguistic control already went there and back, so I'll leave it in his hands. And it's just so disingenuous. It feels like nothing. It feels like swallowing sand, and the only thing that can fill you up is the thrill of breaking the rules. Load yourself up and take note of it. Carve the object of your shame into the bark of a tree and draw a little heart around it. Never forget because you don't need to, because, after all, you aren't ashamed of yourself anyway. Who needs them, huh? What's the big deal-- you know what you want and you know how to get it, and let's face it, whatever you got is what you wanted because, well, you wouldn't have it any other way. Now, answer me this: were you lying to yourself, just now?

>> No.1000437

>>1000430
It was like wading through the deepest swimming pool full of wet tissue paper that had no end. No end and no beginning. Just flailing through and expanse of moving material that had no shape and no name. No sense of direction or time.

Do not forget the choking feeling. It was back with a vengeance, except this time any remaining air was replaced with the surrounding substance. She felt like she was dying. He probably was dying. Or splitting. Splitting in half. There was more pain. Not only of the burning feeling of their entire body being deprived of such a simple element, but another pain. A searing pain that felt like every single nerve being sawn in half.

Which was what was happening. In this dank and dark and vast sea of unidentified regret, two people were emerging of one. Male and female, respectively, giving a coherent identity to the former one genderless being.

Ripping in half and reforming into two wholes. Ripping away from a former completeness that was unrivaled. The distance kept growing; growing until it was unbearable. Being pulled away by the environment and away from familiarity. A crushing loneliness took over the feeling of searing pain and the feeling of drowning.

This was a different kind of drowning. It was no longer about being able to breathe. One was not able to breathe under this immense weight of being torn away from the person that meant most at the true start of life.

The feeling of him knowing that he might not see her again. The feeling of her knowing exactly what was missing in her life. Both drifting further in another direction despite trying to come closer together with every single painstaking movement. Trying and trying until moved by such intense sadness, she falls to her knees in this endless expanse and wails in a soundless castrophony of grief that reaches his soul and moving him to do just the same.

>> No.1000439

when a relationship ends what happens to the emotions that were shared in said relationship? Does the love simply fade? Do the memories that were created lie in the dust of memory? If the relationship was strong enough do the emotions stay with the people forever or do the people simply let them die. When your relationship with a person end never let the emotions die keep them with you so maybe you can share them with someone else

>> No.1000442

too much teen angst, not enough cyberpunk

>> No.1000443

>>1000437
In this expanse, the same exact thing happens to more and more beings, finding their way here from that nameless path along a nameless plane of existence. Being torn apart from their missing half until the entire ocean of sorrow begins to implode in upon itself, unable to handle what it has wrought.

While it contracts, that does not mean he and she are contracting with it. Every incomplete person continues to drift further and further into a now empty expanse. Just because the desolate sea is gone however, does not mean the suffering lessens.

One becomes the hero, one the antagonist, though it is not clear which. Such uncertainty causing the greatest of misunderstandings in the history of the fraction of a moment that this happens.

None of that matters though, because in the next moment it is all gone. Every single event that had happened in a place without time, and all of those affected by the misery and misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time for no reason at all.

Gone.

I'm not sure why...

>> No.1000444

The Devil had crawled into human skin and his name was Marx. He was a walking timebomb made of pure chaos theory just waiting to blow at any moment. Death coursed through his very veins and wherever he went destruction followed. In his withered right hand he holds the end of all, entropy, death, suffering, he wielded them and commanded them with authority, like an avatar of some twisted God. The Apocalypse was a man, and the man had a name. His name was Marx.

captcha: Worms Frustra

>> No.1000453

>>1000444
crawwwwling innnnn mmyyyy skiinnnn
also wtf is the advanced technology? the down and out junkies?

>> No.1000455

I like the one paragraph shit like
>>1000372 meh!
>>1000421 good!
>>1000432 excellent!
>>1000439 good!

but not the multi-post shit. LEVEL OF INTEREST, DECLINEDED.

I am a femanon so my opinion clearly doesn't matter...

>> No.1000461

>>1000455
As a femanon too, I call you out on your bullshit and tell you to get the fuck out of the literature board if you can't be bothered to read more than three sentences.

>> No.1000468

I could feel the muscles surrounding my throat violently constrict as the acrid stench mercilessly wafted into my nostrils. My eyes quickly darted up from novel that I was formerly engrossed in to investigate the source of this putrid scent. The scene unfolded like it was taken verbatim from a legend of old. An ancient lumbering giant of a man was poising himself to lower his frame onto the spindly park bench upon which I sat. My lips tightened against my teeth and my nostrils flared as this man, no, as this beast emitted echoing grunts of effort from its belly. With his palms resting heavily on his kneecaps, the monster slowly craned his neck to meet my gaze. As my pupils adjusted, I began to inspect the behemoth's features more closely. A patchy and unkempt beard covered a bloated face that was riddled with pustules on the verge of bursting. His mouth contorted into a crude grin, revealing a putrid row of rotten and time-worn teeth. The man feebly croaked, "Hey" as I made a frenzied grab for my canvas shoulder bag and leaped from my perch. As I scurried away, I glanced back at the frightful scene only to see the beast glumly slump forwards, supporting his weight on his engorged stomach. A small breeze blew dandruff from his shoulders, casting the creature in an almost human light. One couldn't help but feel some form of compassion for this lowly husk of a being, yet my gait hastened, removing any thought of him from my mind. Later that night I was fucked hard by my starting quarterback boyfriend.

problem, neckbeards?

>> No.1000469

Put a candle in the window, but I feel I've got to move. Though I'm going, going, I'll be coming home soon, long as I can see the light. Pack my bag and let's get moving, because I'm bound to drift a while. Well I'm gone, gone, you don't have to worry no, long as I can see the li-

Shit, I knew this sounded familiar. Everything that pops into my head is Creedence lyrics, though. Any tips?

Captcha: "the streamers."

>> No.1000473

>>1000455
This post confuses me. What mental process could lead someone to write that? What could lead someone to claim that they like shorter posts more than longer posts? And then somehow link that to the fact that they're a femanon? And then to make some sort of veiled complaint about how this means her opinion doesn't matter? Even though we wouldn't have known if she hadn't said?

It makes no fucking sense

>> No.1000474

>>1000461
If I wanted to read a novel I'd read a novel, not an image board

>> No.1000476

>>1000473
Well this being 4chan I expected, even on /lit/ that my gender would affect my ability to think

Women are not as smart as men, you know that

>> No.1000480

Stream of consciousness writing: it's not what you think it is. "Random bullshit spewed from my subnormal brain through my fingers onto the internet" is not stream of consciousness.

>> No.1000482

My mind will not stop. Thoughts twist and turn through the stupid depth of my mind. In and out and next and next.....I feel so small if I let it stop for too long. Where does the heart meet the mind and do they ever live in peace.....sometimes the only peace I feel is when waking for a moment and sinking into to resistless sleep. That's the only moment when all is still net in perfect motion of a dream too warm to wake from. And I can never remember where I was in my mind...that gave me such comfort. For in waking life, reality is so many things....what is true is so unclear is is beyond anything one can comprehend....if you think deep....to the beginning...and consider when it all went wrong.....and how to find a place for the human that we all are but so willingly deny....I find a strange comfort that bites back when I ponder all this and feel woebegone....but it makes me smile sometimes....

>> No.1000479

>>1000476
Are you trying to troll? Or are you just writing nonsensical inane posts because you're stupid (in a way that is completely unrelated to your gender)?

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>> No.1000487
File: 44 KB, 500x357, 1272847270583.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
1000487

>>1000474
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>> No.1000497
File: 46 KB, 467x426, coolface.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
1000497

>>1000480
> Defining a term by what it is not.

>> No.1000498

>>1000489
>>1000495
>>1000492
fucking love you stag

>>1000497
that's perfectly acceptable in this case, you shithead, because this is not a logical debate and making a negative point can actually be helpful in understanding what a thing is

>> No.1000505

ITT: one tripfag and two anons make any sense

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File: 44 KB, 380x303, INTERNET-6.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
1000506

>>1000484
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>> No.1000508

1 : the continuous unedited chronological flow of conscious experience through the mind

If my conscious experience is random bullshit spewed from my subnormal brain, then I'm going to write random bullshit spewed from my subnormal brain. Otherwise you're not getting my stream of consciousness, because you cannot receive my thought process. All you're getting is edited—even internally—monologue.

>> No.1000518 [DELETED] 

>>1000508
>implying thought is random

>> No.1000534

>>1000518
Using the word choice that was used earlier. My thoughts aren't random, but if someone's is then their stream of consciousness would reflect that.

>> No.1000537 [DELETED] 

>>1000534
you're an idiot and you're obviously wrong

>> No.1000551

>>1000537
Engaging rebuttal. I get it now, we *shouldn't* show our thought process is a literary style designed to show our thought process. Instead, what do you propose, Stagolee?

>> No.1000556

>>1000551
He obviously wants some screenshots with timestamps.

>> No.1000565

Stream of consciousness is a literary style where the author CREATES a sense of thought and emotion by mimicking the passing of thoughts within the character's head. Faulkner, Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, and many others have placed their own touches or flourishes to the style.
It's not you just fucking babbling. There's another word for that.
It's called free-writing. It's a writing exercise mostly just to spill out thoughts. It's not stream of consciousness. It's free-writing.
Stagolee is actually right for once and you people are fucking morons.

>> No.1000568 [DELETED] 

i propose borissoup deletes this thread

>> No.1000571 [DELETED] 

>>1000565
hold on when have i ever been wrong?
i'm always right

>> No.1000573

>>1000565
I exclusively write in first person with myself as the protagonist, what now? :3

>> No.1000575

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>>1000565

Seriously, guys, get your shit together.

>> No.1000577

>>1000573
Then you are a shitty diarist and not an author of literature. Your mindturds have no place on /lit/.

>> No.1000578

>>1000573
That's called a journal.
If it's fiction, it's just narrow-minded.

>> No.1000581

>>1000578
It's either quasi-fiction or full-fledged fiction, never autobiographical.

>> No.1000600

>>1000581
Don't tell me I'm the only one who does this.

>> No.1000604

>>1000581
You have no clue what you're talking about. If it's "quasi" fictional, that means it contains some autobiography. If it's fully fictional, then you're not the protagonist, your protagonist is a character you use as a mouthpiece.
The whole point of stream of consciousness, and this is tangential to my point about narrow-mindedness, is that the author is able to place themselves and the reader into the life of a character unfamiliar, possibly, to both, but still provide relevant details of either plot or character development and to do so without actually revealing either, but only by encompassing any of it within the character's thoughts. It's about skill and subtlety, not expression. Faulkner's greatest criticisms of the bigoted south did not come directly from hims prose; the criticism came out of Jason Compson from within Jason Compson.
My point being, if all you're doing is just slapping together your thoughts, and attempting to fashion stories around it, you are most likely a boring writer. The whole point of fiction is to make things extraordinary, and that's why it requires imagination as well as rhetoric. To reduce it down to characters parroting your thoughts is a work of sophistry that is easily revealed, easily criticized, and rarely accepted well. Almost always some asshole tries to bring up Bukowski, which is dead wrong, because the guy was centered his writing entirely around the story itself, and any thoughts or memories were there to advance plot or explain a motive, rarely to express a view.

And hey, Stag: The Clash sucked, Lost was a lame TV show, and you're almost never right.

>> No.1000610 [DELETED] 

the clash is a great band and lost is a great show i'm sorry if you don't possess the intellectual prowess like myself to enjoy either of them.

>> No.1000613

>>1000600
A lot of people trying to write do this. It almost never works out well. We had threads from the Random House intern guy months ago where he would tell us about some of these and everybody would gather 'round for Awful Story Time. Our collective schadenfreude at this person's abysmal lack of perspective would rise up, and we would laugh.
A lot of people think this is what writing is, and it's why a lot of writers don't get published. It's why fanfiction is almost always shit, and why middle-class shitheads raised on mediocre books, bad movies and worse television have stories about drug dealers and/or ridiculous technological advancements, or even worse, stories that amount to the creme de la creme of /r9k/ relationshit threads.

>> No.1000615

>>1000604
When a story is triggered by an event that happened to me, even if nothing in the story has an element of truth, then I consider it "quasi-fictional." The character is me, even if he does things that I haven't, he is still me in every sense. He thinks as I do, does as I would, and believes as I believe. Sometimes the best way I can project my character myself is through describing every thought he and I have. So I guess it would be both free-writing and stream of consciousness.

I also usually don't name other characters besides myself, or thoroughly describe them beyond what's necessary for the story. They're almost always second-class in my stories.

>> No.1000618

>>1000615
Ok, man. Ok. Keep defending it. Maybe it's great. I doubt it, but maybe. Good luck.

>> No.1000622

>>1000618
Defending? Not at all. I'm merely explaining.

Also, confirmed narc. I'm not referring to narcotics, either.

>> No.1000635

>>1000468
this is laughably bad

>> No.1002167

bamp

>> No.1002257

Pants down and boxers too, cradling my nuts with a towel over my dick. Man, what a fucked up mental image; too bad it's real.

I'd ask where life's taken me but it's pretty obvious. Life's taken me to this computer every goddamn day since 1999 with my shaft raised in preparation and my hand poised to give it more strokes than an old man on a sodium-only diet. This shit is pretty sad. Wonder why I don't mind.

It's probably just sameness wearing me down- twelve years ago I wouldn't have seen myself here. Hell, twelve years ago I'd never have imagined half the stuff I wank to could ever be considered erotic. So, hell, it must be sameness wearing me down. This hollow day-by-day leading me to a shameful routine.

But I'm probably over-thinking it. Who am I to wax poetic when I've got a perfectly good rod to wax instead?

>> No.1002265

god damn im hungry
i found a menu of mexican seafood on the front gate of my brother's house
that shit looked delicious
i should go
its only a couple blocks away from my place
but what if they laugh at me for my terrible spanish?
i wish i had taken more spanish classes in college
oh well, i will just go to subway :(

>> No.1002302

some people are fucking scary

>> No.1002306

>>1000420
This made me smile.

>> No.1002383

If only I could gather up the courage to ask her what I am feeling. I don't get it, I am literally capable of everything else, but when it comes to her there is a great fucking wall between me and my course of actions. If only I could understand how to tear this mother fucker down, if only.

I will one day rise up and win, because I always do, but until then, I will just have to live with my constant state of being without her.

End thought

>> No.1002483

Goddamn, I really need to take a shit. Should go for a cup of coffee first, or should I go to the can before I get my cup of coffee. shit, I really need to go. Maybe I should just go, then get a cup of coffee and then start writing on my assignments again. I don't know man. Life is so scary some times. Lol! Look at this captcha: create patinas. Wtf does it even man... Ha man, I still need to go... this is horrible. Alright, I made up my mind. I think. No, I'm sure. if I hold it any longer I'll pop a hemmeroid or something. Yes. I'm going it. Right now!

>> No.1002515

you guys are shit writers and obviously don't understand anything that's happened in this thread and the concept of stream of consciousness

>> No.1002531

Love is all about ignorance. We love people because we idealize them. We know nothing of them so we fill in the blanks with what we would like to think people are. It's like physics. They attract you at a distance, yet repulse you when you get too close. Basic physics.
It explains everything. Almost everything. It explains breakups of "perfect couples" which just found out how weird and awkward they really are. It explains broken marriages when one day you just found out that your ideal spouse had three abortions.

It doesn't explain one thing. The "nice guy". Why he always chooses the one he can't have. The one that doesn't even look at him. The one that always picks the wrong guys, gets hurt and repeats it.

Actually it doesn't explain shit.

>> No.1002534

They ask me what I'm doing by fuck if I know what I'm doing I mean fuck they don't even look that happy what the fuck should i be doing anyways I mean I know I want shit but seriously I don't want to let myself go after things I really deny it

>> No.1002540

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>> No.1002543

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>> No.1002676

I'm sure that if I smell grapefruit, my heart is going to stop. I feel this tightness in my chest and I'm trying not to breathe in and I'm trying to focus on the screen and the more I do, the shallower my breaths get the stronger the smell. God, it doesn't even smell real, it's like one of those too-sweet chemical smells that come from expensive nature-themed shampoos. Every cell in my arm feels like it's shriveling and they're all shouting at me in tiny microbiological voices shaking, quaking cytoplasm, and I know it would help if I breathe in, but I can't or else the grapefruit is going to sneak into my mouth and my nose and my heart's going to stop it'll just stop right now I know it.

>> No.1002735

Well, here goes. I guess I'm supposed to be special or whatever, but all I want to say is THE GAME. Well fuck, that probably is going to annoy anyone. Not like anybody reads these things; they all contribute, but suck at reading. At one time I saw a bird land on a window, but not on the sill. I can't believe it's not oil, and that's how it'll be forever. Until I see you, I'll need to stop speaking using the first person. Oh gos, Shaih Halud was such an epic Rainman, until that part where the guy from the Mummy went all out agianst Barca. Lolwut. Anyways, I say A Chilean chick, about 15 years old's tits, and it was so cash. I befroe /b/ except whgen there won't be anymore power for the warp core. That might have been a reference to Star Trek, or maybe those godawful Na'vi. I hop you guys by now realizer this id the least pretentious post here, until this very sentence, which refudiantes (Sp?) my whole statement. THE GAME. THE GAME. Well, now I wonder what will happen if MY MOM GOT SCARED, AND SAID. There once was a man wirth a box, who covered Beijing in some blocks. /x/ shat bricks, and I was a prick, and lotty-dee-lotty-dee blocks. My sister came here. That was over a year ago, back on the Valiant of the Time War.

And fin.

>> No.1002755

So.../lit/ doesn't know the difference between "stream of consciousness" and "LOL SO RANDUM xD"

>> No.1002788

If she looks. Burning flesh, brown skinned and skinny, but with blonde hair. Tell me how it makes sense? Treadmills, flourescent light bulbs, music that I don't understand. Vanity. If I were crazy it would have came with a box of shells. Diet Coke and cheeseburgers, having my cake and throwing it, that's what I want to do. Forget me and my expensive shoes that pound away my conveyor belt.

>> No.1003070

god damn... I wrote like 15 posts worth of stuff... should I post it?

>> No.1003076

>>1003070
no, it probably sucks.

>> No.1003077

>>1003070
Christ no. Please god no.

>> No.1003106

>>1003076
>>1003077

yeah you're right, it was mostly just me questioning my bullshit philosophy and why I am so pretentious and whether I should even worry about that and wondering what my motivation is for trolling people.

come to think of it, the summary has more fucking direction than my dump of a paragraph and the entire thing just makes me think I'm not a very good human... it reads like a hipster's highschool English class report on Catcher in the Rye only more pretentious

>> No.1005118

Most of this is fail.

>> No.1005130

>>1003106
ok whatever i didn't mean to make you that upset
i don't like when people get sad like that after my posts
angry is ok but not sad
i'm sorry anon