hopeless alceda 01:21 and unpoetic the studio monitors the one shitty youtube recording of the time built_to_spill and modest_mouse played broken_chairs and tiny_cities together over a 25 minute medley uploaded in two parts i think it is the most sacred recording i know i think i am trying to blow out my eardrums but not quite so i don't hurt myself another way i am trying desperately to hold onto some inhibition it's something like how i feel and it took three hours staring at the wall to get here because i'm paralysed this can't continue but i have no solution or plan or feasible imagining of a configuration i can keep living in this world and be happy, i just... it's all i could think to do 261028 ... alceda and now what fuck 261028 ... ovenbird How many times have I said this recently? That happiness is not a thing I can hope for in this world. I know what it is to be happy. There have been moments, fleeting glimpses, but never a persistent state of happiness, at least not since my very early childhood. I have no hope of happiness. I’ve stopped trying. But the hopelessness is not as hopeless as it seems. I have always felt I’m wrong for this world, and it might even be true. And so happiness is not for me, but meaning is. Everything means. It means so wildly, so powerfully, so painfully. I try to make things from it, the meaning. Then I try to make meaning from the hopelessness. And in the process of the making there is (not happiness, not quite that) an aching firebrand of joy. It can’t be separated from grief, so it is not happiness, which I think is a thing apart from grief, an airborne thing. But there is joy, which is grief’s twin, dependent on loss to give it shape, and that is a thing I can sometimes find, though it is small and dense and hidden. What keeps me here is not hope for happiness (though I wouldn’t turn it down if it came for me) but hope for connection with those who might be willing to bear mutual witness. And hope that I will be allowed to see deeply: this flawed world, our many broken hearts. 261028 what's it to you? who go blather from