fais de moi une histoire secrète, dérobe-moi à notre monde idyllique et naïf, mais surtout néglige le dernier chapitre de cette histoire. je veux l'impossible, oui, l'imaginaire, le mythe, l'aventure, l'intrigue. j'ai foi en toi, toujours.
i spread myself across the sea, fingertips greeting foreign woods, lips kissing foreign stars. i'm the boy on his ninth life, arms ablaze with fondness, pupils atramentous, swelling to swallow anything you are.
last night i dreamt my bones were in the midst of metamorphosis, mutating, twisting. the doctors didn't know what to do as i writhed in the most exquisite pain.
perhaps i have grown tired of misery. after small pockets of bliss such as the past few days have been i always seem to question the beauty of it, the poetry in despair. it no longer holds the same appeal to me. it always returns, though, sooner or later. as i write this, even, it beckons.
"si tu tiens à vouloir passer pour un minable à mes yeux, c'est impossible ______, parce que je sais que tu ne l'es pas... tu es bien plus"
i've kept my journals to mostly semi-poetic writing for a bit, but i'm feeling the need to just vent about some issues i've been having, i'm just going to do this all in one fell swoop and then shut up about everything. promise.
i, essentially, have a perfect life. i'm doing well at school, i have friends who care about me, i get to choose my hours at work, i have the most wonderful boyfriend, ect. and for some reason, at the end of the day, i just never end up being happy.
and one of the main reasons for this is my body.
"She is so beautiful she is unnatural; her beauty is an abnormality, a deformity, for none of her features exhibit any of those touching imperfections that reconcile us to the imperfection of the human condition. Her beauty is a symptom of her disorder, of her soullessness."
— The Lady of the House of Love, Angela Carter
it's so strange how other people who want death seem to be so defeated by life, when my ideal death would be at my highest point, when i have achieved something at last, before my decline.
i want to feel every worldly emotion, every pleasure, conquer all, and then spit on the illusion that is life
to cross the final frontier, death.
on a much, much more cheerful note, my significant other and i have decided that we are going on a road trip this summer! assuming, of course, that we are still so young and starry-eyed about this whole thing.
i am quite certain that my lungs have exploded over this weekend.
(BENSON & HEDGES).
gotta have another.
i am the bird, you are the cage
the sky was as blue and pure as your veins,
and its blood as delicious as yours.
look, me and my family at the waterpark (-:!!!!111
i just want to be a real boy.
i think i'm addicted to the internet
SOME1 SAVE MEH !!111111!!
for real though it's sad
A beehive inside my heart
Where the golden make sweet honey
From my old failures