Hello World, It's Nice To See You

Long time no see I suppose! Thought I'd update a bit:

Everything's going really well and life is still moving. I recently got into a band with my friends and it's one of the funnest things I have done in a while. Good music with good friends is a riot.

(Breezeblocks by Alt-J // cover by The Stangers)

Still in school and that's a bore, but I'm taking a ASL class which relives all the tension and is something I really like. It's a beautiful language, not talking. So fluid and artful. You kind of forget that it's work or even part of a culture that you're not apart of.

And of course, I am writing. Writing songs, writing thoughts, writing stories, and writing poetry.


November 13, 2013

Have you seen the concrete curtains
And the beings cloaked in bloodied sweaters?
They roam, fleeting white shadows
Hanging from hotels
And dazing on rooftops

Ghost gardens of lilacs and lilies
Poor into windows and slither in pavement.
Nervously, nature introduces itself
To the loneliness that was
The human race.

And what a lovely place it was,
Burdened by pills of truth.
Shamefully it becomes only vapor
And we become
The glass of generations addictions.

The trees are rebelling against our paper
And the seas swallowed their sand.
But what are we to do,
When the earth
Takes back its silver?

Hello.

I'm considering ending Writer's-Esque. As I get more serious with my writing and poetry, I think I just want to keep it in my notebook instead of on the internet. Thank you all for the reads and feel free to email me at: itsunwritten@gmail.com 

Thanks again :)

I wrote something.

Shout at me with words of forgiveness
And I will do you same,
For we both are thoughtless to each other.
Like the rain, we never touch
Unless the moon guesses it so.

Your voice is the moon;
A rich, sweet air that I shall not breathe.
Oh, how I long to breathe again,
For suffocating deteriorates the soul.

I have become beautifully bitter, love.
Your absence has turned suffocating into drowning.
Panicked, alone.
A wolf is nothing without it's pack
When faces with a world of predators

Be the moon and I your stars,
For I do not wish to be a lost thought;
I wish to be all around you,
Because you, to me, are my stars.

Changes From A Standing Fox: Day 3

In an unfailing attempt, blues take on the underground and haunt the white in the sky. Perplexing silver disappears under a watery blanket and wakes yet once again. Gold is resting along this blanket and both seem to admire each other from afar even though their hips collide.

The ocean is the wealthiest of places; it is rich and yet never receives. It gives, but does not loose. And its fertile gardens produce ecstasy and grief all the same and we are not burdened by its horror, but rather pleased, because only here do we sense the inverted collisions of our thoughts and morals and beliefs; they all end where the water lines kiss the blanketed earth.



Happy 4th.

Changes From A Standing Fox: Day 1

Blades of sun ripped open the clouds. Light poured onto the mirrored water and seeped into the sand. Mechanical failures sprinkled the crescent earth, and the sky’s blood reveals a vast continuum of greys that fade to whites. The purest white swallows the mind and pesters the body, but we cannot turn our eyes because here we have found life and here we are looking at death.

This place has nothing novel. We are simply gazing upon our own mistakes as the failures we are because when our eyes pull backwards, we are faced with our reflection within a glass box, and we are content. But content is not happy, and content is not uneasy. But when we speak of the ashen skies and the pale waters, our hearts get lighter and we peel back our clothes to run towards the bloodied horizon in memories of when air was new and the ground was willing.

Starving and Trees

"I couldn't live where there were no trees - something vital in me would starve."

L.M. Montgomery (Anne's House Of Dreams)

I rather like trees. Honestly, it seems ridiculous at a first glance, but I assume that most would agree that trees are lovely. It's a nice, and simple thought only needing a few words to explain itself, but that's not what I'm about; I'm more of a detail person and maybe that's why I like trees so much.

I'm going to tell you the truth, I have never seen this quote until a few minutes ago, have never heard of this author, or this book for that matter (only that I believe she wrote Anne Of Green Gables, and I suppose that this book stems from that. I don't know, I've never read it to be honest). But that's okay because thoughts are thoughts and writing is writing and beauty continues to be beautiful, even if it goes unnoticed. Trees.

I would love to live in a place with trees. But not just stuck in here in my corner of desert and rock with a few trees here and there...no, I want the wide open spaces where the trees and the air and nature are more important than myself, where you can see the stars through the branches and they would be as bright as ever, swallowing the sky with ever light-year they meet.

Somewhere nice and cold with defrosted winters and comforting summers. And trees. Lots and lots of trees.

I love this quote on a level of reasons.
1. I agree completely and
2. it is nice and simple
3. "starve"  she would "starve". 

The word "starve" is what does it. The slightest amount of word choice can make or break a sentence. There are words for a reason, and we must use them. The image and the feeling that happens in my stomach from reading the word "starve" is what she was feeling. How the absence of life can make a person cringe and yearn so deeply for a passion that would starve.


I am currently reading "The Book Thief" by Markus Zusak. This book is one of the most well written books that I have ever read. You can just feel the words in your mouth, tasting the absolute perfection in the sentences. Again, it is the slightest change that makes ordinary brilliant.

Examples from "The Book Thief"

"snow was carved into her skin"
"A warm scream filled her throat"
"...Max Vandenburg arrived on Himmel Street carrying handfuls of suffering"
"face decorated with constant fury"
"Slowly, with the arrival of consciousness, it sank seemingly into the floor"
"some stars had the nerve to rise and float"
"words fell off the side of the bed"
"Oh, how the clouds stumbled in and assembled stupidly in the sky...bumping into each other. Apologizing. Moving on and finding room"
"voices climbed over shoulders"
"Waterfalls of words. A girl treading water"
"Burning words were torn from there sentences"
"The dark came in pieces"
"You will be caked in your own body"
"you could still see the bite marks on snow on her hands"
"risk leads to more risk, life to more life, and death to more death"

Maybe it's the personification. It doesn't even matter. It would take an awful lot of convincing to prove to me that these words are not beautiful.



That's all I have to say really, I don't know, I didn't plan a conclusion are some in-depth question or anything. This is just me sharing things. The End.

"I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions."

Sylvia Plath     
"Barren Woman"

Goings

It's funny how someone can just walk through a door, and that's it - they're gone. They become dissolved in the world of chaos and beauty and are off to new place - better place; to meet people - better people. But they will often see the worst of things, and keep the beauty they once had as their light. But the fact still remains that they are gone. Just like that. And there is nothing you can do to stop them because they have no choice but to venture. You think of the places they will go and what they will discover because you can't wait to hear about it while you stay and while you wait. There are things to say that are left unsaid because you haven't the slightest clue whether they will hear it over their excitement, because it is truly exciting. They are off; they have things to do and people to meet and years - years to live. They will run away and honestly, who knows if you will see them again because life gets pretty crazy, right? 

The unsaid remains unsaid  and we go about our different ways because people move, people die, people have families, and people grow up. But damn, goodbyes are hard.
 -
“And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness” Sylvia Plath

Alone With Everybody - Charles Bukowski

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.

 



 

Dear True Love - Sleeping At Last

We are all liars;
Scratching the floors for the truth underground.
What have we but the guts of flowers?
The innermost tragedy of beauty.
-
Seldom are we dancing with the river,
For we are busied thinking it fog
To compensate for the lack of the Autumn
And to create havens for the poor.
-
Let our nails mark the absence of time
On the willows,
And let us dig into our own graves
Creating peace with its ghosts.
 -
For there is nothing like the peace of the deceased
Who are happy in their sleep.
They were once liars, holding their lips
And lifting wood into the skies.

Fragmented phrases of thoughts I have recently had, sorted into lines that flow. Poetry.

Us

I lay myself into the wood
Where the grass's warmth dissolves into my skin,
But the trees bury the source.
Birds keep songs tucked into their mouths,
And widows kneed webs under sickly branches.
Theses creatures, do they provide substance?
Are they not merely survivalists,
Living blindly with nothing more than the instincts of their stomachs?
We then lift our hands to break them of their unholiness
For we assume God has made imperfect life.

But are we not thieves of their beloved ground?
It is us who are the useless.
Useless creatures under forgiving skies.

For if the air ceased circulation,
And the sun was shunned by more than the trees,
Would the universe take heed in our disappearance?
Would the stars mourn to compensate for our race?

The flowers wilt because it is their time
And the ants under seeds live for their ignorance,
But we do not carry the weight of a blind head.
Who are we to define purpose?
For we are only incomplete.
Simply incomplete creatures resigned within a universe in negligence

What we see is still are things that do not breathe

If you lie there motionless they’d kill you in your sleep

Ferry Cross The Mersey - Gerry And The Peacemakers

A Little Background

 

This song was produced by Sir George Martin who is accountable for many of the Beatles recordings as well. Like the Beatles, Gerry and the Peacemakers were a Liverpool band where The river Mersey (70 miles) is located and can still see the ferry cross the Mersey today, moving from Liverpool to around Manchester. This song hit the number top tens in the UK in 1964 (the US in 1965), and at the same time, a movie called "Ferry cross The Mersey" was created, lifting the popularity of the song and film. The lyrics are sometimes portrayed as "Ferry, 'cross the Mersey", indicating that "cross" is short for "across", but according to the album spelling and movie, the word is correctly "cross", making the statement a command or request often made by the captain of the ferry.  

 

 

I honestly cannot get enough of this.

I dig this band, possibly because I love

the Beatles, but also because this particular

 song is full of history.

The Garden

I touched the blue leaves and the ice upon my fingertips melted in my skin. Blue veins, like my own, crept through the leaves in wisps of lavender, and I was overcome with grief for disrupting the temperatures of the earth. Yet, the some clovers which stood before me have never tasted the foreign fingertips of the earth's machines.

The frost covered thorned branches stared across the sky, but did not move. I ran my palm along the outer edges of a branch and watched defected snow die in my hands again. Guilty with my actions, I sat on the damp grass and gazed at the gray sky, dusted with streaks of white and indigo. Everything seemed to hold an undertone of light that connected, and I felt myself fade away within the skies and the leaves and the branches of blue.

Yet, I was overcome with despondence, as if the sky was fading into its white innocence while I sat in the envied grass. My heart had taken the life from earths togetherness and my mind had made me an enemy of the frost. 

Untitled

I like to tell myself that I can let go easily, but I always end up with my eyes closed and arms outstretched, hoping that in sometime and in someplace, someone would come back.
I am afraid to say goodbyes because in my gut, there's always a sense of doubt that I will be remembered.
I wish to be remembered, and I wish to talk to you and I believe in love and I just want to be happy in my future. I want to love people and to live freely doing things that give me joy.
I envision love and I envision nice weather and when I close my eyes I just want to be loved and to love and sometimes I think of you and sometimes I think of life and death or which way the wind is blowing
I just want to sit in a silence that is never moved and be in good company. That's all I really want. Good company.

Blue World - Mel Torme

It's a blue world without you,
It's a blue world alone;
My days and nights, that once were filled with heaven,
With you away, how empty they have grown!

It's a blue world from now on,
It's a through world for me;
The sea, the sky,
My heart and I,
We're all an indigo hue!
Without you it's a blue blue world.

The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran (On Self-Knowledge)
pg 54:

Say not, "I have found the truth," but rather, "I have found a truth."
Say not, "I have found the path of the soul." Say rather, "I have found the soul walking upon my path."
For the soul walks upon all paths.
The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed.
The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals.

 

 

 

 

 

Have I found the soul?

Have I found a truth?

Does truth rely on where my soul unfolds?

What is my soul?

  Should I try to hide
The way I feel inside
My heart for you?
Would you say that you
Would try to love me too?
In your mind could you ever be
Really close to me?
I can tell the way you smile
If I feel that I could be certain then
I would say the things
I want to say tonight

But till I can see
That you'd really care for me
I will dream that someday you'll be
Really close to me
I can tell the way you smile
If I feel that I could be certain then
I would say the things
I want to say tonight

But till I can see
That you'd really care for me
I'll keep trying to hide
The way I feel inside

 

 

 

The Way I Feel Inside - The Zombies

 

Roshamboo

"So avoid using the word ‘very’ because it’s lazy. A man is not very tired, he is exhausted. Don’t use very sad, use morose. Language was invented for one reason, boys - to woo women - and, in that endeavor, laziness will not do."






Dead Poets Society

Prove to me, 

That I'm not  gonna die alone

Put you arm 'round my collar bone

Open the door

Putting The Dog To Sleep - The Antlers

Listen...

A poem by Ogden Nash


There is a knocking in the skull,
An endless silent shout
Of something beating on a wall,
And crying, “Let me out!”

That solitary prisoner
Will never hear reply.
No comrade in eternity
Can hear the frantic cry.

No heart can share the terror
That haunts his monstrous dark.
The light that filters through the chinks
No other eye can mark.

When flesh is linked with eager flesh,
And words run warm and full,
I think that he is loneliest then,
The captive in the skull.

Caught in a mesh of living veins,
In cell of padded bone,
He loneliest is when he pretends
That he is not alone.

We’d free the incarcerate race of man
That such a doom endures
Could only you unlock my skull,
Or I creep into yours.

"Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think"



A.E. Housman

Senseless love
Is the insuperable design of life
What uselessness it has drawn!
For a love without
A passion
Is an insult to ourselves

His pen draws a sunken face
Along his golden fingertips
He has become lost in the misplaced
Yet truth traces his lips
And in front of him are his silver eyes
Reflecting from his ink
And his art has never realized
How black their hearts were made

love.

Creep - Radiohead

i want you to notice
when i'm not around
you're so very special
i wish i was special

You sing it more beautifully, with simplicity; and the lyrics 

were twisted. But all I really thought was how you were 

 consumed in the music. And how the words were 

drained from your mouth. And then I almost cried.

The rain is only falling
For the people who cannot feel
For something in the weather
Want's them to know they're real

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” 

H. Jackson Brown Jr.

Still

Two feet standing on a principle 

Two hands longing for each others warmth

Cold smoke seeping out of colder throats 

Darkness falling leaves nowhere to go

It's spiraling down

Still -  Daughter

A Crow's Story

It's been about a moth since I've wrote something worth doing anything about. And this is even questionable, but maybe it suits some purpose...somehow. Ah words.

A crooked neck stands on an arthritic branch, and with every movement it possess, breaks the branches limbs one by one. What a tragedy I was witnessing, for within the serenity of its movements, lives silence, its long forsaken friend. Silence traced the livid noises of serenity and folded them perfectly into the compacted atmosphere. It is then when you feel the air closing in, feel it press against your skin and envelope your blood until it shatters in your sleep, and upon your lips are the cold and the lonely, only in the enlightenment of the crow’s crooked necks and breaking branches.

When the silence comes, I come. I walk to the trees that carry their broken branches and I wait. I do not necessarily wait for something – actually, I do not wait for anything at all. And I suppose that you may call it thinking or pondering what I do, but that is not correct either. I think I find myself in nothing or quite possibly that I find myself nothing. And that is alright because maybe I’m only dreaming.

These trees with their branches are inside a forest inside of a town under a giant sky. Yet, the sky within the trees does not wish to be vast; it is content with the limitations in the thick of the forest, clouds, and smoke. And whatever the sky does, it does. Who am I to question the all-powerful sky? Nothing. Or possibly I would become just a mere thought; but are we not all thoughts of God made up of our compacted atmosphere? I assume it does not matter, for maybe I’m only dreaming.

“Unless it’s mad, passionate, extraordinary love, it’s a waste of your time. There are too many mediocre things in life; Love shouldn’t be one of them.”  



Dream for an Insomniac

City Of Teeth

done by smilinglimpet



thoughts?

"Normality is a paved road: It's comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it."

Vincent Van Gogh

Dean Martin - Aint The A Kick In The Head

I cannot think of why swing/jazz would make one

unhappy.

I apologize for the lack of posting if anyone was wondering. Just got back from a vacation so I'm back!

What a hard concept to accept that things simply are and to let them simply be

Fire Escape - Civil Twilight

The Bench On 31st Street

12:50 A.M
Have you seen the paint chipping off of the bench outside of 31st street? I have. Not only has the paint chipped, but the wood is splintering because it's not one of those fancy metal ones. It's making me more depressed every time I walk by it. Someone should do something about it.

Yes, I have seen it. I do not think it is sad at all. What an interesting story it must have. If it was repainted, you would not see its scratches with all of it's memories attached. Do not fix what is perfectly fine, doing so is like ruining a fine piece of history.

I've got some extra paint with me, are you in for the work? Maybe we can exchange the wooden bench for a fancy metal one, one that will be sturdier to give more purpose to 31st street. The people may be happier and the rain and snow will not effect it as much and I can save the paint for the next repainting. 

What bench?

Why do you care so much? Sometimes we mustn't change things for the sake of fate. Let it be, until it's time to break or bend has come. The paint may need to be fixed or it may not, what happens will happen, and we should not feel bad because alas, it is only a bench on 31st street

Maybe our whole city could get involved. Let's paint it blue and create a park, with different benches, all painted by the citizens and anyone who lives on 31st street. It would be nice, don't you think?

 People do not notice your bench, they are too focused on where they want to be and how they're going to get there. The paint on the bench and the act of sitting on the bench crosses their minds for a millisecond until they are too late and have to continue walking.

There are many types of people

And God knows

That it's a common misconception 

That I'm the only one for you

I can take you out for breakfast 

But he can take you 'round the world

Fred Astaire's the man for you

San Cisco - Fred Astaire

The Horizon

It's funny because things end up happening and things get in the way and we do nothing but stand there on our personal roads and look over the horizon to see that it has no end, so we just start walking.
We don't know why, we don't truthfully know how (although we would like to think we do), but we just pursue what we see over the horizon. On our journey, we see different places and different people that we may meet and see and maybe visit in the future, and that is nice.

We still keep walking and running and traveling and taking pictures, yet we do this all in blinded eyes. We do not know what is in the horizon still and some of us get scared at nights because we don't know where we are going. And that's something that we feel like we can never cope with. We usually don't, and it's scary to feel lost and to feel the danger of the cold nights where the dampness of the air seems to envelope you. Lost. We become lost, but we are still wandering; just feeding our superstitions.

After awhile, those who have done nothing but walked will stop walking and stand there in front of a barren street and wait for death or possibly sink themselves waist deep into regret. These are your options if you stop walking, and these are frightening options.
They have not ran or traveled or took any pictures. They have only walked. They haven't had any fun and have not danced in the rain of had a good laugh. They have not read any books or seen any good movies. They have not tied any bows or drank any coffee or made any bonds. They've only walked.

Our first instinct is to feel sympathy for these people who have stayed like this their entire lives. But do not. They are not lost, they know who they are, and what they have done because they are the product of their own decisions and that is okay. But if you've come to the decision of awaiting death or sulking in regret, be aware of the places you've past and the nothingness you've achieved, for that is the most frightening of all.

So our conclusion is this:
When you are out there on your road, be aware of what you pass and where you run to or where you dance in the rain. The horizon will start to dwindle, but should never surpass your conscious mind, and that is alright because the subconscious mind seems to do a lot more anyways.

 The horizon, it is a vision, and the world a ghost.

How heavenly is it to be feeling alive?

"Look at your hands, look at all the smallest lines. I think that's incredible."

"It is. Where is the soul in them? Where is the soul? What does it mean that you have wrinkles in your hands and your wrists?"

"Maybe we should look at ourselves as graceful and not as the machinery that is so widely accepted. Or not. Maybe it's all dependent on the person because we all have different lines in our hands...what do you think it means?"

"I'm not sure. I just think about it, and it just makes me nuts to think that other people everywhere have they're own hands and they're experiencing everything as the center of their own universe. How different is their bodily experience from my own?"

And then I thought of the time when he said he wanted someone

to come to conclusions with. He said that coming to conclusions

in deep thought was nice alone, but to do it with another person

would be lovely. And it was lovely.

I wonder what he thought.

detached
elapsed 
severed
abstract
forsaken
absent
missing
discrete 
free
gone 

"You take huge steps, trying to feel the planet's roundness between your feet"

- Annie Dillard (Pilgrim At Tinker Creek)

Cityscapes - Jeremy Mann

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                            by Jeremy Mann

A pause.
What a lovely place
To be caught in a futility
Of metallic lead rods
Infusing oceanic chambers. 
For what is the void behind your unconscious?
It seems to disappear.
And who are we to ask?
Are we not a void ourselves? 

I am blind

And this is the day that I write. When the curtains are drawn from the cloud enveloped stars, where the sadness kicks in, where the motionlessness hovers over my mind just like one of those clear umbrellas that surround your head, but leave your feet to the rain. Then your feet soak up the water on the ground because that’s the only way you can see. This is not inspiration; it is the feeling of a poet. Seeing by the feelings, blinded by the sensations all within a distracted force. This is writing; and it is not my air, it is not my passion, it is just what is simply done. And I cannot help what is simply done.

 

Loneliness is only love's hologram.

It hangs above your head just like a star.

But when you know it's burning out,

You give it one last nod and then it's gone.

And then it's gone

 

 

 

Snowmine - Hologram   

It is all an illusion until you've stricken it a reality. Only then does it harm you, and you, it.

San Cisco - Reckless

Top bands

At A Loss

I am on current mental vacation. Nothing has come to me recently. Nothing flows.
Also in a stated of happy sadness and confusing details. What has come of this?
Yes, writer's block comes and goes and I accept it, but how inconvenient. Right when I need to write, I am at a loss. Not necessarily for words or their placement, but of the ideas that are behind those words.

Trice Atmospheric Thoughts

Thirsty thoughts of life and love and death. What values go astray? Life - for the sake of longevity; Love - for the sake of lust and the false; Death - for the embarrassment of dying in discussion. And do we think this not? Some may. Inopportune descriptions of handwritten memories - well, quite possibly we in total remain hand written. But these in handwritten lies.

Where did the desire go? Where did that of haste?

lack of sleep
tea over-dosage
mad writing
comparison to rain 

Tree Sound

What would the trees sing?

The rings of a tree trunk interpreted by Years (bartholomäus traubeck).

He sings so beautifully
How I've desired the accompaniment.
And it's moments like this
Where I find myself helpless
Please, tell me what to do.
Overwhelmed and devastated
I pull my hair and break my back
In compensation for emotions
That cannot handle themselves.
Madness?
Maybe so.

"When love is not madness, it is not love. "

Pedro Calderon de la Barca








One sided madness

Romeo:    "O brawling love! O loving hate!
                  O anything, of nothing first create!"

Shakespeare (Romeo And Juliet)

Own

His voice coincides with passion
How a taste of his words would fulfill.
His comedic sense of lashing
Still heaven provides no will.

Poetically spiraling
Although he leaves no trace.
Gone before the cast is set
The sea moves no pace.

Ah me, mistaken for lost
Yet now I find myself ease.
Togetherness with those words
Would immune us from a peace.

(For peace, it grows tired
Of simply being good.
That we must be opinionated
A question what we should.)

His voice, how it coincides with mine
The soul of a shot
For it would be a shame
If we kept pattern
In this world of not.

ER

Two Cents.

"Illusions: The Adventures Of A Reluctant Messiah" by Richard Bach is a book that everyone should read. I encourage anyone who invests their time in reading to pick this up.

"He who doubts in what he sees,
Will ne'er believe do what you please"

William Blake

Musicish

Honeybee - Stream Powered Giraffe

 

Oh, Turpentine erase me whole

I don't want to live my life alone
I was waiting for you all my life
Oh

Why

 

 

 

 

 

(Just listen, my god. The harmonies. Very talented band and completely entertaining.)

Weathering

 

 

It is dark where I am sitting, but my window is open. It's kind of funny how you don't notice that it's dark until the sun is gone. I am speaking literally though.

Ah, the rain and the clouds picked a perfect day to become friends again.

 

Look at the pavement of the suburbs. It's beautiful.

 

It's only important to me because I've had a conversation and he said "I think I could live anywhere because I can find beauty in everything" Maybe it sounds a little self absorbed but it was not. It was simple and free speaking. And the suburbs are where I'm at, and it just became beautiful.

The Falling

The fantastic structure of evaporation
A consumption on a level of innocence devouring a self
How swiftly it drops!
The exaggerated feeling of intense fear
Rarely a device of obscurity
Rather, air rushes to split your skin
As well as it steals the air from your blood
The falling
Is not in controversy, but in suspicion.

Reading List

For The Time Being - Annie Dillard
Glass Castle - Jeanette Walls
The Shining - Stephen King
On The Road - Jack Kerouac

"The immense hazard and the immense blindness of the world are only an illusion"

Teilhard de Chardin

This is a fine life, I am doing fine things.

And all I feel is like I'm banging my head against the wall
consistently.

Everything falls slowly so that I can feel it in every instance
of my being.

And my head hurts only because there's nothing to
remember.

I'm not going to lie, I still love him, but he's already got a passion,
and who am I to destroy it?

You are the sun and the stars
I am the moon and the comets.
And we can be happy.

And you sit, and you wait;
Oh, what a horrific mistake!

Music Stuff

Steal His Heart - Emily And The Woods...

The Yesterdays

Result of my missing is a long decent of my own intuition. These regrets and decisions that only the fondness for sadness pulls out of me. My head hurts, I feel sick and every inch of my body sinks into the floor. The headaches, the long lost thirst is just carried on from repeated days of repeated misunderstandings. Every word spoken was indirectly a fault of mine. And I, who am those faults, am stricken down again. Even in my unfortunate youth am I the depiction of the desperate. Not one of pleading useless causes, but of one that I felt I could possess but was proven wrong yet again.
Because I am not the one he loves.