my brain to my words.
time for more writing. I’ve just graduated. It’s a mostly good feeling. Already find myself sneaking around on master program’s websites though. Will need school break, will go back, I know. Can’t wait for fall. project, road trip, experience, happiness, sadness. I’m feeling many things. I feel very alive. That’s good. My blog is empty. That’s not. I don’t know how to be a good tumblrer. tumbler? tumblr-er. tumblr-user. whatever, you know what I mean. Things will come around.
sweeps your soul away from life but also takes you deeper into it.
an addicting drug that, instead of taking away from every other kind of experience, heightens it.
sensing the world in a new way.
bringing alive TO reality and escaping FROM reality simultaneously.
desire to praise and worship beauty.
an attempt to articulate these feelings.
dynamic tension between my tendency to overflow and the rigorous work and effort that it takes to create something cohesive.
like a poem, or a romantic relationship.
feelings and technique combined.
volcanic passion contained in rigorous form.
She’s not one to burn bridges,
but when she does, she stands
ever still in the fires her lighter
brought, the heat tends to
remember summer’s breeze, and
she knows connections worth
losing are memories sought after,
she’d rather be burning in the
flames of remembrance than
standing on the riverbanks of
forgetfulness and loss.
Anonymous asked: You are a really wonderful writer. I thoroughly enjoy your work. Thanks a lot.
that is the best thing i’ve heard all week. thank you very much, anon.
my legs have felt numb for days. laying on the bed they don’t feel like mine. like someone took mine with them and replaced them with a waxy substance that allows me to walk but barely more. an existential moment, is this what it feels like? having such a fever that hallucinations transcend what’s real and you look down at yourself.
“mama, you’re not going to make a fossil out of me are you?”
once i hallucinated so intensely that, as my mother covered my body in blankets, i felt such an extreme sense of claustrophobia that i might as well have been the forefather of a fossil, buried alive under hundreds of decades of stone and earth. my mother was frightened. i still felt like a fossil.
but what is there to do. there are bridges to burn, i could get high on america, there are several activities with which i could spend my monday evening. just my match and i, for the burning, just my zeppelin and i, for the getting high.
but none of these will give me a reply, and neither of these is what i really want. you can’t burn a bridge you still walk, you can’t get high if you don’t like weed. and i still feel like a fossil.
would let you do
what you have done,
not that you did anything.
my each and every cell.