a break-up letter.

i am convinced that i have moved backwards in the development of self.

already twenty. another year older. another year wiser. another layer of perspective and bias that only complicates my convictions and makes me all the more uneasy. i used to know who i was so well. now i find myself unable to list my hobbies and interests, only reciting a meaningless repertoire of activities that i used to like doing. have you ever woken up and completely hated yourself?

i stumbled upon a really old online playlist of my favorite songs and it was incredible, to say the least. the music i used to listen to was stuff that actually meant something to me, not this repetitive shit that is only mildly addictive with the assistance of fond memories and illegal substances. i tried to search up the remnants of my past online, in hopes of rediscovering more of what i had once loved. oh, it is staggering to see how much i have changed. my mother used to read me a bedtime story every night— which cultivated my love for literature, reading and writing. now, i can’t even remember the last time i read a book from beginning to end. which just makes me so sad, like all my parents’ efforts in trying to raise me to be a cultured, literate person has gone to waste. and for what? all i do is eat and sleep and waste my time. i can’t even bring myself to care about a damn thing anymore. i used to say that passion was what made me who i am— god, i used to be so obsessively passionate and care so much about things that it would drive me mad with unhappiness. i’m beginning to think now that that unhappy feeling was necessary for me to stay motivated, become inspired, and keep moving forward. it has been so long since i have created something beautiful, something i was proud of. too long since i have had an original thought that remained for longer than the capacity of my short-term memory. fuck, i don’t even exercise. i just drift. float away with the current. which i am content with, most of the time. but when i realize what i am, or have become, a mindless floater… it frustrates me to the point where i hate myself and every decision i have made in the past 3 years. and i can’t live with it.

still, i have to keep reminding myself that tomorrow is a new day. and to wallow in this hopelessness is just useless. it takes a lot more energy to channel the hopelessness into something productive, but i just want so bad to find that uneasy feeling again. to not be satisfied with myself. to want to be better. and its taken me awhile to pinpoint the problem, but now i’m beginning to understand.

honestly, weed is cool, but i think i was cooler without it. and maybe when i learn some self-discipline, i can once again embrace it. but i know that there has to be more to life than this, and i want to make my existence quantifiable.

5:30am shift. Sick and depressed. The only thing getting me through this week is your endless love and support. You’re so good to me.

can’t help but feel bitter. and the bitterness makes me just want to not care.

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

Inside by Sander Van Doorn & Mayaeni

What happens if you fall in love with a writer?

unknown-one:

Lots of things might happen. That’s the thing about writers. They’re unpredictable. They might bring you eggs in bed for breakfast, or they might all but ignore you for days. They might bring you eggs in bed at three in the morning. Or they might wake you up for sex at three in the morning. Or make love at four in the afternoon. They might not sleep at all. Or they might sleep right through the alarm and forget to get you up for work. Or call you home from work to kill a spider. Or refuse to speak to you after finding out you’ve never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. Or spend the last of the rent money on five kinds of soap. Or sell your textbooks for cash halfway through the semester. Or leave you love notes in your pockets. Or wash your pants with Post-It notes in the pockets so your laundry comes out covered in bits of wet paper. They might cry if the Post-It notes are unread all over your pants. It’s an unpredictable life.

But what happens if a writer falls in love with you?

This is a little more predictable. You will find your hemp necklace with the glass mushroom pendant around the neck of someone at a bus stop in a short story. Your favorite shoes will mysteriously disappear, and show up in a poem. The watch you always wear, the watch you own but never wear, the fact that you’ve never worn a watch: they suddenly belong to characters you’ve never known. And yet they’re you. They’re not you; they’re someone else entirely, but they toss their hair like you. They use the same colloquialisms as you. They scratch their nose when they lie like you. Sometimes they will be narrators; sometimes protagonists, sometimes villains. Sometimes they will be nobodies, an unimportant, static prop. This might amuse you at first. Or confuse you. You might be bewildered when books turn into mirrors. You might try to see yourself how your beloved writer sees you when you read a poem about someone who has your middle name or prose about someone who has never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. These poems and novels and short stories, they will scatter into the wind. You will wonder if you’re wandering through the pages of some story you’ve never even read. There’s no way to know. And no way to erase it. Even if you leave, a part of you will always be left behind.

If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.

For Each Ecstatic Instant

For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ratio
To the ecstasy.

For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years,
Bitter contested farthings
And coffers heaped with tears.

Emily Dickinson

Sometimes you just have to be compassionate because people can’t help who they are and what they care about.

nevver:

Gorey

Holiday spirit

My dad always has a backup plan. I trust him with my life.

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

fckyeahcc:

Always Remember Me | Ry Cumings ft. Sara Bareilles

why do i write?

in high school i looked back on my xanga, the blog i kept in middle school, and laughed at the person i was— my immaturity, the deficiency of perception, the simplicity of thought.

when i move on from this stage in my life, when i transgress the boundary between my teenage years and adulthood, i want to look back again. i want to look back in five, ten years and this time i don’t want to see what i saw in thirteen year old me. instead, i want to be proud. proud of my insight. proud of my beliefs. proud of what i considered matters of utmost importance. proud of my original thought and my insistence on staying positive. i want to be proud of who i was at age sixteen, who i am now at age nineteen.

still, i do enjoy the warm memories that come rushing back when i try and decipher the entries TyP3d OwT lYk diZ. i shake my head in disapproval but can’t help but muster a knowing smile for that immature little girl who always had the guts and lack of discretion to speak her mind. she is much braver than i will ever be.

In the hopes of reaching the moon, men fail to see the flowers that blossom at their feet.

Albert Schweitzeer

remind yourself

to never be angry at a person who has made an honest mistake. no matter how big of a fuck up they have been, no matter how much it has disrupted your course of living, you have to remember: there’s no point and no sense in getting pissed at them. honest mistakes are simply that— an accidental action with no malicious intent. more likely than not the person is already kicking himself in the ass for what he has done. accept the apology, resolve the problem, and move on with your life because you will not benefit from dwelling on it.

verbiage

an overabundance of words