Hindsight has always been my closest friend. Looking back, memories, the whole deal. The warmest thoughts and companions have always been the ones I looked back at. There’s dwelling and equal parts cherishing the things that have come and gone, and looking back on them and relishing the feeling of what could’ve been and how they’ve changed. The future has, at best, been an idealistic dream so far in the future it’s almost unrecognizable. That’s always the way its been, and the most help that’s brought is blissful ignorance. I’ve always hoped for a chance to really turn my life around; to become a better version of myself. As I’m writing this, I know full well that the chance is here. I have a loving and supporting person in my life, the person of my dreams! I’m studying to do what I truly want to do! All I have to do is push. All the chances are here right now. I know that if I fail now, there will probably be other chances down the road, but none of them will ever be like this. This is the stars lining up for me. This is my chance.Read more..
She’s deep in the red. Deep in the darker tones of blood and moody crimsons that are warm to the touch. She’s in a dark room with her eyes closed, and her breathing is like that you would expect to hear if she was drowning. It makes me wonder if she might be, but her rich red turns vibrant in an instant. Light is now flooding in and her eyes are opened. She’s on the shore, and the sun touches with a firmer warmth than her colors did a moment ago. The tides always bring her out of the harm and in to light. In the light there’s safety; In the light there’s strength. If not strength, then at the very least a lack of frailty. Still, there’s cold stretching out like roots from her frozen bones, and they’re weaving through the tissue of her muscles to knot. Every blink takes away the happy thoughts, and for the briefest moment there’s a reminder she’s freezing. Eyes open to sunshine; close to cruel bones. The winter is exhausting. Exhausting. It’s exhausting but it’s coming from her bones. It’s the one sharp sound that always cuts through the steady hum, but it’s coming up through her bones and I can’t help.Read more..
Under the night sky, where up above stars reach from so far away, the depths reach out in expansive tracts. A slice of my heart is suspended down below the surface, the bass of water pressing comfortably from all directions. So far out from the solid earth beneath my feet and away from the lights, that sliver of silver soul exists away from my fool's gold heart. Space is a dust of slowness, while time is frozen in midnight. It ticks away while bringing in forth the new day, and away it's left for another oneRead more..
What do you see when you look through your own mind's eye? When you look at a body moved by a heart and mind so different from yours and pass judgment? Contempt for the things done and reactions had, there's a belief that your own burning heart holds more; that I was meant for a life somewhere else. Looking at you, I see myself alone and well. My heart begins to blaze, and with it comes certainty. In truth, I see my own insecurities prodded like live nerves through what you've accomplished and what you will. There is no righteous fire around my heart: it's a handcrafted bomb that I'm holding together with my own desperate hands. It feels that way, but for you I'm trying to diffuse it.Read more..
Sitting on a chair, leaning against a wall, looking over from across the room. Those eyes are on me when I act; ears to me when I speak. When I toss a pebble in to the water, the ripple will go through her first, feedback will ping against the back of my smile and I'll think a little more next time. I could break a glass cabinet of hearts or raise dead spirits, and the first thing I'll do is spare a glance towards her ghost. Gone maybe, but when she stopped coming around she stopped adding to my perception of her. Now she's stuck in time in my mind, and that candle alone lights my way.Read more..
Attention is a drug. Its absence wreaks havoc on our self-esteem, and its presence brings on a high so euphoric that we forget the adverse effect it indirectly brings. The supply we get tips the scales between monster and man, and every skeleton crouched in a dark closet(or more accurately those with rotting flesh still clinging to bone) is there because the dark is far more reliable than the sunshine. The solitude and safety the claustrophobia brings isn't something we ever wanted, but what comes and what we waited for are seldom a shared identity. Some are going to bang on the door until their hands bleed, some will pass on by swiftly, but I can say with certainty that you will all be better off, and I know.
And I know.Read more..
I'm starting this without any direction. I just want to write. I want to write about ideas, my life, and other people's lives without slipping in to the self-pitying or diving in to the swamp of lazy hate that fills in the gaps of my life. I want to write about a girl that learned to mistrust the world before she set of in to the winter, and her feet carried her through starvation and against winds that hurt. I want to write about a man that grew old in a regular life, watched his wife pass away in peace, and then nursed his shattered heart until he died..... only to be brought back by the same lost girl that traveled in the snow. A story stirs in my head about a man so dissatisfied by the world around him, yet can't find a fuse to light with his burning heart. The songs tell him to fight a war he can't take up arms in, and so he dips in to his own insanity and finds a guardian angel. He kills and finds someone just as broken and ready to join his own aimless war. A fire needs to burn or it smolders, right? I want to write about these things, but what I really want is to write this exact piece of writing. This narrative of wanting to succeed yet feeling the much more comforting weight of bitterness is nicer. I want to write this, post it, and then go for a run, shower, and sleep away today. I'm doing exactly what I want to do. I don't think I really care about the narrative in the words, but the narrative of myself.Read more..