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.)
You are tired of your heart, explicitly unconscious and uncaring, and it makes the blood become easy, an ache swarming below skin. They look at those sweet white little scars that cradle ill-fated imaginings, they whisper from the hallway: "therapy treatments" or "too fucking fragile".
The morning were intimate and undamaged by dark; the day was an open sore, barely breathing; the evening was a day-dull star, blinking back; the night was the moon in a doe-eyed gaze. I thought, once, that every dawn brought with it a fresh hell, a new bruise or a new bone to find broken.
People tell me now that I am strong. I have never thought about myself in this way, always wanting to be too-small and always feeling too fragile. It used to rain inside me, once for always and sixty days.
Everything was cold and wet ; the orange and plum bleeding from the trees, ready to die for the season. I clutch my coffee, inhaling smoke and breathing cigarette ghosts - my body, this soul-house, howls for them like a baby, a moon-calf crying. It has cried often, for God or love but mostly for nothing, nothing, nothing.
Pretend I wrote a really well written story about how I was in the cemetery all night last Saturday and smoked cigarettes and drank beer sitting on tombstones, about how I was wrapped in a big blanket, how I rode a longboard without quite knowing how down a hill (in big goth platform shoes, too!), how I was huddled with a friend, pointed to the graves and mausoleums and said "some day this will all be yours".
i'm not sick anymore
When it was six in the morning you didn't want me to go, so we smoked a cigarette quietly on the staircase leading up to that dingy apartment. When it was six fifteen, you said that you were sorry you had disappointed me, but I had already forgiven you. By six thirty you said to me : "Hiding somewhere under that kind heart of yours is some darkness that you've got all nice and bottled inside, and I can only hope that one day you might trust me enough to show me."
it's so difficult sometimes to try being happy because habits are difficult to manage and get rid of.
hiding your knees
considering how lonely everything is
contemplating dying, ect.
It's difficult because these are "safe" habits for me and truly appreciating things is new.
At the same time I've always told people that all I've ever wanted is to be okay and I'm starting to feel that way.
It's hard too because I feel like I have so much to say yet no one to tell.
For the past two or three days I have been trying to be kind, undoubtedly and indefinitely. Trying, really, to be giving simply because I can and to expect nothing in return. I've always felt like there were so many of me inside this body but none of them that I was really able to like, but through kindness and empathy towards other people I'm starting to feel as though it may be possible.
(It sounds really dumb but I've been trying not to think ill things about myself and it actually ended up working for a full day?)
I looked out the window and I felt quiet, quiet, quiet, quiet. The silence reminded me of being lonely, and it's how I have been for nine months now. I belong deeply to myself and to the trees, perhaps, and even less probably, I am one of them. He whispers my name, twice, because it's all he knows, and so I lie back down in bed, my blanket empire, my pillow kingdom, my home of duvet and memory-foam. I find my heart once more deep in my belly, intestine-armoured and shy. His eyes are good at being blue and I'm good for nothing.
Last Saturday night, I took LSD and I'm using this journal to chronicle what I remember of my experience and thoughts, but beforehand - I don't advocate use of drugs. If you're doing drugs you should be educated on the possible adverse effects of what you're doing. You should also do them in a safe environment with people you trust.
I'm also not looking for judgement on my lifestyle or choices, be it good or bad. This is a reference for myself that I also want to share with people who are interested.