Where are you? Your voice
has escaped from me and
I worry that when I
look inside my heart
and call for you,
you will not
You are missing from me,
and sometimes loving
you is like hearing
they found a dead
child on the news,
only they don't
So I stay afire, after dark, waiting
for your voice on the telephone
and ink marks forming
letters on hospital
I just want to open the doors
to all the haunted houses
inside you and say
Today is March 20th and today is also the day that my boyfriend has left for rehab for the next four and something months. I am not sure how to feel right now, because I miss him dearly already, I miss his hands and his mouth and his voice that says 'I love you' and 'You are the world to me'. I am sad that he is missing from me. But he is safe, and love is winning, and for this, I am blessed. The last words he said to me as he left were 'you saved my life'.
I find that as I grow older I only grow stranger, I find myself grasping on to the idea of boyhood like it's a vine on a cliff named Soon-to-Be Twenty. It's not a question of being afraid of maturity or responsibility, but trying to hold on to wonder, to magic. I may be clever, but I certainly hope that in the face of the universe I'll stay a child, constantly dazzled by the new.
to the wound that i belong to,
i am sorry for
Hello everyone and happy new year! I hope you all have had an okay month.
I am currently in New York with my boyfriend and I have just shown him a few of my journals. It is one of the most beautiful moments of my life. We have shared so much over the past month. I love him more everyday, more than I ever believed possible.
I simply wanted to stop in and wish you all warmth and kindness over the follwing year. <3
✁ (http://mustaphamond.bandcamp.com/track/blood-moon) ✂ Blood Moon by Mustapha Mond ✃
° . * Closer - The Tiny : ˜ http://youtu.be/4GbDa2UnAO4 ° . *
√ http://youtu.be/bTre20HWNsg ,
(She's A) Universal Emptiness - Swans
At eleven thirty on someone
else's couch he turns
to me and says: "You
are the most important thing in
my life right now" and I wouldn't be
angry for what he had done
; '˜ http://youtu.be/6efeMgZ1cGA ☆
A man on a streetcar once
said to all: "I met a girl named
Dream last night" and
another shuddered: "I have
been breathing too
"i love you,
i love your private hell" she
says to the girl with the bruise
on her arms.
so i sat and memorized
the shape of his hand and spied
on his skin.
* ~ ;
(I have been away! I'm back, I think!)
I've been up until 3am for the past few days, reading a few dozen academic articles on site-specific art and criteria to determine what defines it as site-specific and all I can really say is that I now :
- Really, really hate art institutions for limiting artistic potential, creating absolutely meaningless discourse and analysis.
- Really dislike my studies
- Therefore, see no real meaning in my current studies as an art and film historian
I don't know what to write, but I am so tired. My body, heart and head are all tired. I wonder how much I have to give, how much I am able or unable to. I wrote recently that I missed my frailties and I find them returned soon later, paired with bruised arms wrapped around and cold sweat.
(user page - photos)
In several ways, I miss the person I used to be, in all my old meekness and fragility. People now tell me I am brave and strong and independent and I try very hard to be all these things. Mostly, I am okay. But when I am not I feel the strangest emptiness. When I think about it, I was never really empty the way I can be now - I was always longing for something or someone. It wasn't as much emptiness as much as a lack, I suppose.
There are the marks of his nails on my skin, there is the train tickets he never paid for, there is the can of silver spray paint with which I wrote "WHERE DID ALL THE FLOWERS GO" on the community notice board.
It's fun to play pretend - it's cool to be bad.
The bathtub near-empty, scab-skin and saliva once submerged, a body kissing the filth with a black-hole mouth, and it came to the same.
They can't keep them clean, them angels and them crack pipes and them piss stains mistaken for halos. Look how them wings grow brittle, look how them robes are torn.
(☆ user page: link to a video of my friend and i spending a day in the cemetery - not the one i wrote of here. i seem to be spending a lot of time in places like those, i am in love with the calm. i am also in love with my cape which she is wearing.)