you are tiny little explosions. they don't happen often but when they do the smoke hangs around for days and days, makes my eyes sting, breathing is a little harder, cancer maybe. you are secluded, small, far away but echoing, from a different world.
throw me a dream please
i think some things need to be said explicitly. an acquired skill.
& i read what other people write, they write about their haircuts and their friends and their sleeping habits and things they had for breakfast and the weather, it is perfect, simple and it is fascinating and it is something i have so much trouble doing.
what have you done
today, i fantasized about running away for the first time in my whole life and it sounds terribly appealing only because i did so in the most childish sense, like i could maybe live in a hollowed tree or squat in an abandoned mansion or move in with someone wonderful and they would love me and spoil me and money and other worldly things would not be an issue because in daydreams i am wonderful, beautiful, unforgettable and an altogether perfect and graceful human being but completely disappearing is an art, something that needs to be fine-tuned and executed perfectly.
but in real life, soon it is over for always. everything will be clean. clean. clean. clean!
blacklisted
every time i think it will be different. there are all these things i know i can't do, but sometimes i will feel like i can do them and it leads me astray. where are the people that are sincere? the people who stick to their guns and to their feelings? the people who say what they mean (or at the very least, mean what they say)? some things i can't find in myself & i wish i could find them in you, or somebody. i wanted you to prove me wrong.
if things get just a bit too heavy
i have forgotten about a lot
ingested a lot
spat out a lot
i feel better.
and i have this fascination with having conversations with strangers
the ruler
i have this thing, this life, that i have been making and i wish so dearly for you to see it.
captain
'it's true, he said, it's true about the mountains and the lakes and the air and the the feeling you get in the end of your fingertips. sometimes i feel warmer on the coldest nights, and sometimes i don't feel anything at all. he looked at his shoes - it's been the same pair all these years - and then he looked me in the eyes. the only place where none of it mattered is where the sea ends and where i start.'
woke up late
i had, or continue to have this delusion that words can get me somewhere. i think even if i write until i can't feel my hand anymore i will be exactly where i started except i will have taken my insides out and put them on paper, which is uncomfortable to say the least.
you've told me that our insides don't belong on paper.
this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation
v: "what you felt in there has nothing to do with me"
evey: "i can't feel anything anymore..."
this year, everything will flip upside-down
i don't know if i get up early and go to bed late or get up late and go to bed early. every day is so different that you can never do the same thing twice because it doesn't fit or it doesn't work. we could stay in bed until the sun started to go down and then make coffee or i can get up when it's still dark if there's things to do and time to have instead of time to kill, although time isn't even really an issue. the issue is what is done and what is seen, and sometimes all i want to see is the world with my eyes closed from my bed. the sun will shine or sometimes, like today, it won't and i like that too. i can be happy with anything or unhappy with anything, or sometimes in the middle of the night i know i won't be able to stand being next to you so i'll get up and have something to drink or learn how to breathe with my usual composure
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