Words

Words

I realized the power of words. I can let words determine who I am. Words are all we have to live on, is that not true? Why? Because words are the only vessels of thought, beside action and emotion I suppose. But look, if I have perfect control of my words, I could convey exactly who I would want to be to whoever I like. That person would only take those words from me, and those words would be an emblem of what that person would think of me. Same goes for action and emotion, but I can't control that shit. I am a collection of thought. To everyone else, I am a collection of words.

I'll say fuck you, and I'll be an asshole. I'll say thank you, and I'll be a nice person. But I'm still the same person regardless of what I say. But to you, I could be whoever I want, as long as I am in control of my words. That's english right there. Little block of implication stretched beyond it borders, yet limited by the fuckin' ignorance of people.

ps. reading people's old blogs makes me sad for some reason. dont know why.
and also, fuck bitches get money. yeah im joking. that shit is for dumb mongrels with nothing better to do with their lives.
do i sound bitter? i probably am.. poor me. will you spare me some sympathy?
uhh screw sympathy.. who do you think i am? a fuckin girl?

words lol. so fun.

tylerhaley

tylerhaley

"honestly, was there any point when you doubted yourself and thought you wouldn't make it?

right now. somehow i always read hater ass comments and then think to myself like fuck, do i suck that bad, why the fuck do they hate me? they dont even.....then i stop caring. im always gonna make the music i want and do what i want no matter what anyone says, but, its a whole different world man. imagine being a kid with a group of friends just skating and making music and having fun, and then being pushed into a world where everything you have always thought, done and said is now under a microscope. then being one of the most popular people ever, then going to one of you favorite sites one day, and its a 500 page thread about on how much everyone fucking hates you because of how they cant get the fuckign camp cap that just fucking released. its not my fucking fault that shit sold out, ive been into this shit just like you, dont fucking blame me, dont be mad because theyve been fucking with me for years and you still have to pay for the shit, ive worked hard for what the fuck i got, and im just having fun and being myself, but these fucking critics dont get that. its all about acting famous and professional. some one said the coachella performance wasnt that good. i told him that, its was to me and the kids in the front. i guess they were expecting some other shit, idk, but, what they dont know is that i get on that stage and have fun performing my songs for the cult following kids that know all the lyrics, i can give a fuck less about the nigga who just heard yonkers or the magazine dude who just wants to see what the hype is about. they dont fucking get it, and when you are un familiar with something, you are quick to judge it. i dont let it faze my creativity at, but, when you are just getting negative bashing at one point, then the covers of magazines and getting your dick sucked by bitches and all this other shit, you kinda lose it. this shit is happening so fucking fast. i dont even have privacy anymore. them niggas flew to fucking the middle of no where, to stalk on a 17 year old kid, taking fucking pictures and all this other weird shit like, wtf? really? you dont fucking know him. saying we FOUND him, like i didnt know where the fuck my brother was. now muthafuckas are calling his moms peoples and doing all the scary ass stalker shit, all because complex wated some more traffic to the site, that they could respect the privacy of me, earl, his mom and odd future. when i say free earl, i say that so people dont forget about him, i say that, so, in spirit he can be at the sold out shows that we only dreamed of. i say that shit, so, i can put in the universe that he comes home again and we can do that shit we did. them muthafucks dont miss thebe, they miss earl sweatshirt, they miss the music, and im not saying thats a bad thing, im just saying they dont miss my best friend, they are missing a new album. i was so fucking pissed off when i seen that fucking stan type shit. child molesters do that shit, like, did they really fly to fgo spy on a kd that doesnt give a fuck about them? what the fuck. shit is weird not. every show we have had has sold out. like, wtf, this shit is still crazy to me. fuck. i dont know what im talking about. i have no one to talk to im typing this to let this shit out. sorry if i didnt answer your question."

fame. balance. paradox. tragic. words. honest.

at first I was like

at first I was like

odd future wolf gang kill them all
and then I was like
oh fuck will god kill these animals?

golf wang

Paradox of Depth

Paradox of Depth

Upon much thinking, its funny that you often come upon the simplest conclusion that could have been met with no thinking at all.

x

x

I have no regret for anything I have ever done, nor will I have have any regret for anything that I will do, or even attempt to commit. For the necessity of my success, I find any path of emotion leading me stray from my path irrelevant. There is no definite, only the indefinite that whatever may come before me, consequence of my actions, or not, will be not causeless to my success or failure. There is no past, neither is there a future that I seek to fulfill myself. Only the present, the moment of thought that gathers the thoughts that belong to no time, carries me on. And in this moment, the only thoughts that I bear in mind is my constant for success.

Nothing will stop me. Whatever will come before me, I will strike down. Adversity only heightens my thirst for success, and the only guidance I have is of me. I am willing to give up certain parts of me I find no longer necessary. In order to become great, one must break through the curtain of mediocrity. It is of mediocrity that attacks us, not adversity. I intend to do so, no matter what. Because in the span of humanity, whether it is during my lifetime, or after it, I will become great.

sunset&impressions&night

sunset&impressions&night

Every moment and every dream I fallen asleep to, I have woke up from. I look up to the light and bathe in the warm sunlight just to find myself that every day, the sun sets, just as every night, the sun rises. But even finding myself in these horrible, hopeless situations, when I wake up to another day, I look behind me to find that yesterday was much warmer. I pass by seasons of spring, summer and autumn, but each day has its own tragic end, knowing that the feeling I will feel tomorrow will be one step less hopelessness because my life revolves around the hopes of yesterday. But that is why I come to a place like this, when I can appreciate the daylight of last year, or the day before that. The reason behind my breathe lies in the past. The hope of the hopeless is beautiful.

* * *

The tremendous advantage of a first encounter is that the impression that it leaves is usually favorable, an image more so compatible and excellent than the actual demeanor would dictate. If only all our relationships were based on these shallow miscalculations, letting our imagination lengthen the remains of the personality beyond all balanced borders. This shallow world would be pleasant to live in. But this is not so. As relationships between people deepen, so does the propensity to see flaws. The flaws increase and we realize that the balance was inevitable to be fulfilled in order to have a deeper understanding of the person.

* * *

The cyclic overtones of distraught and revelation lie buried at the summit of his curious being, becoming the glasses of which he peered at the world. He was not waiting for some obscure mysterious epiphany to dawn upon him, or the holy angels to descend a cloth of enlightenment upon his soul, for his revelation was the very existence he contemplated.

Sleep fell over him like a docile creature, bred to domesticity after countless nights of inbred captivity. Daybreak is no longer a mystery to him. He longs for the moment day and night no longer will uphold their cordial reconciliation. Perhaps his lines will extend a ink stroke further, perhaps his mind will wander one eternal step closer to the creation of art. But he is a chain to his words, and time is no longer at his shackles.

Daybreak falls like the morning star, with each step he lapses deeper into the darkness, closer to the light that awaits. Dawn is an illusion.

dark

dark

Thoughts are slipping away. I say the world rotates on its axis to show men that no matter what justice they stand upon, it will always be slanted. I have a cellar door, but I have no cellar. Where is the destiny then?
The soft sound of the piano urges me to keep writing. Minor notes. Do I write minor notes? I hope not.

Things are convoluted these days. My head spins and I am tired. The distant steps of trepidation lie at every corner. I fall deeper into a well of lost longing and forgotten passion.
Melodramatic hyperboles and constant emotions keep the track of my daylight under control.

Soon the sky falls out. Sleep falls over me like a silent creature, inbred into captivity by timeless nights of restless apathy. I wrote that wrong, I know I did. No use now.

Need I justify my actions or thoughts? As if I feel every need to fill the gash of longing carved into my conscience by the bitter judgement of other people. But my relentless and constant strive for their appraisal does not halt. And once again, I come to a full circle to this unsatisfied wonder.

The darkness calls for me. I indulge in the darkness. I find peace when I come closest to myself, isolated from the simple pleasures of utterly simple people. I despise the simple culture and simple simple simple of simples. I smile an empty smile.

I live downstairs alone now. Every night, I feast on my imagination, waiting for some vast train of emotion to hit me, so that I can trip into a lost sensation of inappeasable beauty. Every span of time by myself opens the door to creation. I wait for it to take over. I welcome it as a fine visitor. But it does not come yet. However, even for that I am thankful.

I always wondered why the future alway held dark blue colors and sparkles, mixed with deep synthesizers and arpeggios. Quite a unique approach to fit our perceptual sense of our future into the block hold of our feeble imaginations.

Each breath is a near rush. I despise everyone. They make me sick. Everyone is an overstatement. Let me suggest the word: majority. I am a minor.

Story not formulating. Must come back later. Nobody seems to give a damn about these thoughts, or me for that matter. Interesting.

Current Status

Current Status

Usually with the people I don't know too well, it goes like this:
I want to hang out with them.
I don't like them, so I don't want to hang out with them.
They don't like me.
It's usually a mix of the three.

I feel like I don't like people in general. I could pinpoint some reasons why, but they don't make sense. Petty instances seem so overrated and distasteful. I feel like when I'm with people that I don't know too well, I fabricate hollow phrases to pass the awkward silence. It bothers me that I can't just enjoy the moment and let go of my superiority complex or antisocial behavior for just one bit. I try, but it frustrates me. I'm probably blowing the entire thing out of proportion anyhow.

My gosh, I have an utter distaste for the human race as a whole. Some of us are awfully pathetic creatures. We think that we make ourselves something, something of a meaningful existence, but in the end, we will come to realize that everything that we strive for is just a blank stare in the wind. A striking reality will glare back from the distance, and everything that we have yet to see will overwhelm us, engulfing everyone is a swamp of regrets and I should have's. We concern ourselves on what nothing matters, and wander aloof from the very roots of our foundation. Critically flawed humanity. Shrivels in disgust. Sometimes, I am fond of my isolation from the norm of what happens around me. All I need are my closest friends, family, and God. I can be whatever the rest whats me to be. I'm awfully tired, I don't know why. Will I ever be compensated for the dreary mishaps of my awfully melancholy thoughts?

I will read and write something later on tonight.

Epiphany

Epiphany

What does it mean to be an artist?

*
The art, being inferior, does not present the forms I spoke of distinguished clearly one from another. Even in literature, the highest and most spiritual art, the forms are often confused. The lyrical form is in fact the simplest verbal vesture of an instant of emotion, a rhythmical cry such as ages ago cheered on the man who pulled at the oar or dragged stones up a slope. He who utters it is more conscious of the instant of emotion than of himself as feeling emotion. The simplest epical form is seen emerging out of lyrical literature when the artist prolongs and broods upon himself as the centre of an epical event and this form progresses till the centre of emotional gravity is equidistant from the artist himself and from others. The narrative is no longer purely personal. The personality of the artist passes into the narration itself, flowing round and round the persons and the action like a vital sea. This progress you will see easily in that old English ballad Turpin Hero which begins in the first person and ends in the third person. The dramatic form is reached when the vitality which has flowed and eddied round each person fills every person with such vital force that he or she assumes a proper and intangible esthetic life. The personality of the artist, at first a cry or a cadence or a mood and then a fluid and lambent narrative, finally refines itself out of existence, impersonalizes itself, so to speak. The esthetic image in the dramatic form is life purified in and reprojected from the human imagination. The mystery of esthetic like that of material creation is accomplished. The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.—

—Trying to refine them also out of existence—said Lynch.

A fine rain began to fall from the high veiled sky and they turned into the duke's lawn, to reach the national library before the shower came.

—What do you mean—Lynch asked surlily—by prating about beauty and the imagination in this miserable God forsaken island? No wonder the artist retired within or behind his handiwork after having perpetrated this country.—
*

This is it.

whatevers

whatevers

I felt so fulfilled before going to sleep after understanding what beauty was, even though it was four in the morning. I feel like people don't appreciate this understanding, or just don't care enough about it.
I didn't go to school today because I had nothing to look forward to.
I still have nothing to look forward to. I want to have something to look forward to.
I got into UCLA, but I don't really want to go. I wasn't really too happy either, because some of my friends were rejected. It felt wrong to be happy at the time.
Just going deeper and deeper into a horrible water.

Everything fades away to a shade of grey, the darkness of the heartless enslave the day.



























p.s.
I hate the economy. Fuck the economy and all its short run aggregate supply bullshit.
And fuck the horrible teachers that try and teach it, and end up ruining the subject for the rest of us. Corrupting the essence of knowledge with this short run nominal tests and examinations. Fuck education. I hate that word, but it seems to sum up so many of my feelings. Also, fuck tetris and fuck taboo. Fuck losing. Fin.