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Don’t fucking move.
It all started on that bridge, we sat in the middle adjacent to one another. If there was a way to feel white noise, this would be the time that I did. This was the long moment that neither of us expected to put to use. He and I, well I guess you could say we were partners. Conventionally we were, but if you got down to the logistics of why we were together nothing made sense. Nothing ever seemed to make sense for the two of us whether we were separate or together. We just swam in this constant current of knowing our shit and knowing we were shit. There wasn’t much of a difference. Knowledge brought too much power to the two of us. We met on that cross roads, the overpass that would serve as a new road. Lives passed by us with reckless naivety. We spoke no words, and thought only the obvious. That was all we could do until we both gave each other one last look. With a small smile exchanged, we let go. Our hands unclasping with any hope we had mustered up. The moment we had been waiting for, the moment everything would plummet; and everything we knew would be gone passed through time and space with a certain serenity and sincerity that him and I had learned to only expect from one another, and that you could only expect as you approach death.
Everything we had that had gone to shit emptied out with us on the pavement we had been hovering over for months.
Posted 1 month ago // 3 notes
My father was an engineer. He put things together and he was damn well good at making sure that everything was in its place. Too good, even. So good that when I was 15, he made sure that I, his mentally ill teenage daughter, was put into my place. The mental hospital was never fun, and looking back it now, I never needed to be there. Mentally, yes, it made sense for me to be there because I was as good at being off my rocker, as my father was at making the rocker I fell off of.
I never got that. I inherited my perfectionism from my dad, but not in the way I’d ever learn to be proud of. He was a perfectionist functionally, where as I managed to ruin everything I put into place. Even writing this, I stare across the room at that one little fucking wrapper on the counter. Theres a place for that wrapper. My husband had been good about appeasing to my antics, though. He had changed his ways for me no matter how much I attempted to meet him half way. If only I was better at expressing gratitude out loud, and not through words on a page, or through the slutty tendencies I have at 3 am. Sometimes, I swear, 3 am is his favorite time of the day. All of my anxiousness gets lost in a sea of lust. It doesnt even matter that the minute I scream like a siren, the ship goes down again.
I don’t think there will ever be a day that I don’t appreciate a good metaphor; just as there wont be a day when my father isn’t pretentious, my husband isnt thoughtful, and my framework is too stiff. However, I like to think of all of this, as a form of coping. “Coping with what?” you might think. Well, I suppose I wont know that until I’m done writing this story. Until something significant has happened and I reach an amazing turning point in life. Do real people have epiphanies? Or are those just in movies? You’d think I would know the answer to that, as bookish english major who has written 18-too-many screenplays. I’ve written 19 screenplays total, in case you were wondering. All but one turned into another word that I needed a synonym for. Something was always missing.
This whole thing is my attempt to let myself think out loud. And ramble.
A lot of rambling and a lot of shit I’ve left unsaid. Its been a year since I’ve made any attempt to get better, or write, or do much of anything productive. I’ve thought too much with my head, and not enough with my heart. Pretty sure that people are starting to notice, which would be a first because this happens often. I’m just not used to being stuck like this, though.
Posted 2 months ago // 0 notes
The lump in my throat came to be with the impregnation of my speech,
It wasn’t expected, I hadn’t planned it, if i had been safe with my words prior this wouldn’t be an issue.
I wouldn’t have to deal with the pressing urgency that could only be fixed if the butterflies in my stomach were to spill out of me.
Posted 3 months ago // 0 notes
Sleep wasn’t ever something that came easy,
my eyes never seemed to shut and lock,
just as my mind never wanted to turn off the light,
my anxiety, cynicism and defeat crawled under the sheets
to try sleep with me,
though they found themselves insomniacs,
There was always that creak in the floor boards,
that constant reminder that something hadn’t been fixed,
that gleam of “you don’t have time for this” or the pull of instability.
Posted 3 months ago // 0 notes
I still find myself stopping by from time to time. Just hoping that maybe at some point I’ll be more than just an old love. With this weird thought that maybe you’ll want to be friends, that we can be friends.
It just happens, everything thats ever existed, just happens. Religion hadn’t ever been a ship I sailed, so maybe it makes more sense to me, and maybe you want to argue it. But if you were to ask a deity the meaning of life, you’d only end up with a plagued mind. And I don’t know about you, but my mind is plagued enough by noncontagious illnesses and bad circumstance. So shoot me a memo when you think you have your shit put together, and I’ll be sure to tear it apart.
Posted 3 months ago // 1 note
I refuse to bow down to cynicism,
To let childhood lust fade just as the pillow forts fell,
To let the happiness that came with chalked up sidewalks be flooded away to a colorless, rock bottom thought.
I refuse to bow down to hating the world, to hating my own kind,
And I refuse to sit back and let people think that nothing can change,
when they don’t realize how we changed too much while growing up.
Posted 3 months ago // 2 notes
"My stories run up and bite me on the leg—I respond by writing down everything that goes on during the bite. When I finish, the idea lets go and runs off."
— Ray Bradbury (via writingquotes)