Inspirations, random musings and other pseudo coming-of-age stories of a 20 year-old. I write, I ramble, I bitch quite a bit.
Looking for kindred spirits.

A soft sweetness. Your eyes full and dark under street lights. A happiness that could crack sidewalks. Counting pennies to buy pounds and pounds of useless dictionary pages. Speaking a thousand words a minute. Losing a thousand words a minute. A laughter that could crack ceilings. Protesting bad literature at four in the morning in a mess of good things. Recalling sleepless sunrises while stretching the night in a parking lot. Writing silent poems on slopes left of your shoulder. You are speaking about your grandparents and I try really hard to will time into standing still. I’m always surprised they still make moments like these.

Curled up in the corner with old faiths as new shields. Body shaking like a leaf in this heat wave. Clammy hands. Eyes begging for salvation. I have dissected your innocence for too long without a conclusion. I have nothing left to give you — no wisdom, no antidote, no poison. I’m still too weak to raise you from perdition. God knows I’ve tried.

shulammitegirl said: Dear Past Me,

Here is the trick — or rather, one of a thousand tricks I could swear are tried and true — that will save you.
Remember that nothing is forever.
Not the fog that covers everything. Not the sun that peaks through your eyelids. Not the calm before the storm. Not the cleaning up of the aftermath. Not the loneliness that curls itself up to sleep below your ribcage. Not the warmth of being surrounded.
Nothing is forever and you don’t even know yet.
She is your first taste of the word but she leaves you to fight your demons alone. And you don’t even cry forever. Later, you try to recall the details and you can’t recall any tears at all. You just soldier on. Your second try at forever eventually starts to crumble in your mouth and leaves a foreign taste. You survive your best bet unraveling.
Nothing is forever and you can’t even see it yet.
Everything is out of control and you think the world is going to spin this fast around you forever. I can’t tell you if it slows or if you just learn to run with the motion, but it doesn’t always make you this sick. You are not dizzy for the rest of your life. You are not even nauseous for the rest of the decade. It is not dark forever. Your life becomes bright enough to blind you.
You’re going to be humiliated and horrified and embarrassed and depressed and anxious and pushed around. You’re going to be elated and enlightened and so happy you don’t know what to do with yourself and brilliant and enthralled by everything around you. Everything will be terrible and everything will be wonderful and you’ll have entire months of which you’ll have no memory. It’s all a mess. It’s all glorious in its own way — most of it in retrospect but much of it in the moment. It’s all worth living and the great news is that you survive it all. Miraculously. Impossibly.
But even that won’t be forever.
And you eventually find comfort is knowing the clock is always ticking.

What makes you nervous? Is it the second before the storm? Lightning hitting that tree right outside your window? Is it getting older? Is striving for better and falling short? Is it your own failures? Is it your own success? Is it a hand smoothing out the wrinkles of your dress? Is it that twist in your stomach? Do you wake up with your heart drumming in your ears? Do you wake up with your tongue all swallowed up? Do you wake up trapped in your own head? Are you worried about your life? Are you worried about your death? Are you worried that those intricate plans aren’t going to work out for you? What makes you nervous? Is that that silent pang of terror sneaking into your bed at three in the morning? Is it the gaze of your lover? Is it the gaze of your mother? Is it knowing that your best and brightest won’t ever be enough?

I don’t know if I’m still capable of complete vulnerability. I always thought guarding myself would be temporary. But I can only wander outside those walls for the cheap thrills and I’ve been this way for how long now? I can’t help but feeling like I’ve been had. I can’t feel love anybody the way I used to.

What good is a house anyway? Rooms of trophies dedicated to empty victories. Shelves full of insignificant blessings. Enough water to drown in. Cabinets full of my own medicine. A closet that echoes, still, the names of people I’ve loved and loved and lost. Painting happiness on walls so dark they swallow up all the light. Stocking honey in a kitchen full of rot. Fixing the roof until it only ever storms inside. Kissing water stained walls. Spinning in circles to dull music until the demolition crew. You build something with your bloody hands and in the end, it all dies down.

Wash my hair with oil pastels. Every color up in those curls, every color clinging to your fingers. So much yellow in this light and so much purple in your eyes that you’ll only ever learn to stare right. You’ll never know I hate to be looked at. You’ll never know I’d rather rip your sight away from you than be looked at wrong. So much red in this light that your skin is screaming out. The sun burning in your throat, orange and gold. Your mouth and fingers stained pink. Touch me just so I can burn you out.

A little dizzy from the emptiness of everything. I wish I wasn’t rushing so quickly to old habits. Such an eagerness to fill voids before they turn into black holes. Such an eagerness to purify by burning down to nothing. I’m running in every direction. Can I make myself smaller and infinite at once? Can I live my whole life with a foot in each opposite? Hard to run to my new sins without cowering back to my old ones. Shut up, put up, mess up, throw up, give up. What the fuck do I even know (anymore)?

How astounding for her that the whole universe would not revolve around her finding some sliver of happiness. How astounding for her that happiness would be like a slice of hot pie (heavenly but personal) and not like the sun (who, as we know, blesses everyone.) How astounding for her that bliss wasn’t necessarily contagious, that people carried on with their own little miseries while she was drunk off romance, that even the dearest of friends could not share her ecstasy through sheer homeostasis. Truly, deeply troubling news.

Can’t break a fragmented thing. And that’s a good thing, surely. I let the blood pump through pieces. How lovely to learn where home isn’t through shattered parts. How lovely to learn where home isn’t through departures. Heartbeat like a drumset rattling up glass pieces. How lovely that you are leaving; how lovely that your love leaves me lonely. Can’t break a fragmented thing. A good thing, surely.


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