fuck you

fuck nostalgia

fuck regret

i don’t want it



I’ve been writing a bit more recently, but with the tactile pleasure of writing with my own hands, on weathered pages bound in a leather notebook.

I love it.

I still love typing sometimes too though. While there’s a certain profound permanence the moment a pen touches paper, there’s also a certain profound sense at the prospect of being able to rewrite, edit, refine.

It has taken me so many levels of cathartic revelations to come to an understanding of particular perspectives that I’d otherwise have been blind to.

I write for me. It’s release. I don’t re-read. I don’t re-hash. I release, for no one’s sake other than my own.

Not everyone is like that. A girl I knew wrote for the express purpose of showing other people what she’d written. I hadn’t understood that at the time, and as such I had an incredibly jaded opinion about her writing and even her as a person.

It’s nothing more than misunderstanding.

I see that now.

I write for me. Not everyone does, and not everyone has to.

There are virtually infinite ways to make your way through this life.

I just want to be more open and understanding of the fact that I won’t always understand.


I dreamt about you last night

Everything culminated in this, I’m losing it again…

I’ve been bursting at the seams. Maybe the breaking is what I need though. Maybe I’m due for devastation and reform again.

I’ve been leaking, depleting. I have to find something to fill me again. I have to create it. Something new.

Here I am, in a fucking panic, silent and severe. The anxiety is unfamiliar. There’s no subject, no source, just baseless hysteria. It’s a shadow of a fear, impossible to distinguish.

There’s no passion to it, no fire. At least with that I know how to handle the intensity. I can’t handle this emptiness.

It’ll pass, it’ll pass, it’ll pass.


The world around me is changing so rapidly,

as though the ground beneath my feet is cracking and shifting.

Chasms are opening, bidding me welcome,

horizons are changing, hope blooming from the unknown.

So many things are different, which casts in ever so stark contrast the things that remain.

I am the same as ever in a messy myriad of ways, and it seems I always will be the same.

I’m not so scared anymore.

Magic sparks out the ends of these fingers, my tongue leaves trails. I know what I’m capable of.

I just need purpose; I just need inspiration. Inspiration has been absent for so long I’ve forgotten what I feels like.

The last lost loves have been nothing more than red herrings, fleeting distractions. Weak. Shallow.

I remember, what more felt like, like a hazy fantasy. I know what it’s possible to feel. And I want to fucking feel it. Like a fucking calamity, a natural disaster, impending doom, I want to drown in it again. I need that fucking intensity. I lose myself in passivity, my own or someone else’s. I need fucking fire.

still moving

She grabbed me, told me I was beautiful, and and meant it. And, it meant a lot to me.

It was, in and of itself, a beautiful moment.

I pretended like I didn’t want it, only because I felt I had to… not from her… I couldn’t simply accept it.

But the truth is it’s all I ever wanted. It’s exactly what I have been aching for, and it came as such a surprise, caught me off-guard and knocked me off my feet a bit.

It was powerful.

It’s all I want for myself from life, but it terrified me.

It felt pure at the time; it felt like she meant it only as genuine goodness that she wanted to share with me. My internal reaction to it is what didn’t feel pure, is what terrified me.

In a single moment, a single sentence, something within me shifted so sharply.

I was shattered by the intensity of it, shattered by the purity of it, shattered by the temptation of it.

Why is it that everything good that enters my life, also seems to come with a crisis of morality attached?

Only because I make it so.

It’s really simple, though.

Just take the good and cherish it, and expect no more, nor any less than simply what it is.

That is what I need to work with myself on: expectations, presumptions, reactions.

Something Pretty

That’s what I want….

to be.

to have.

to learn.

to admire.

to cherish.

to explore.


I miss a great many things. This is what I miss most… something pretty.

It’s crazy, the intense bitter-sweetness of the sensation when you involuntarily recall something sweet, or something funny, or cute, or even something ugly about someone you once loved.

It takes you back. It overwhelms me with the same joy and euphoria I’d felt witnessing it the first time, but there is a noticeable void in the center of that joy. There’s like this tiny black pit buried in it. And it just feels like a gut punch.

I miss all the pretty things.

I miss all of the ones that ever happened, and are now lost to me.

It’s weird but my impulse is to do my very best to avoid creating any new ones. I don’t want to miss them too, and I know that the departure is inevitable. Everything goes. I’m so sick of missing more and more things and people in my life, and never being able to fill the voids left behind. I don’t want to make any new rooms in my heart, just to feel even more hollowed out.

I don’t want to, but I’m sure I will anyway. Because pretty little things draw me in.


11:30PM – Just got invited to a party. Impulsively, I will probably end up going. Haha see what happens.