fuck.
“but doctor, my hormones!”
that’s what it’s really all about, isn’t it? hormones and pheromones and other types of moans.
why do we C H A S E the unattainable? how many parts of your life can this be applied to?
if not now, when?
right?
people are starting to ask me what happened on a more regular basis. i cringe, look away, and with an exasperated sigh, i tell them as much as i think they should know. when i’m finished, i look at them with foggy eyes, and they change the subject. because, well, they weren’t expecting that.
like any of us were expecting that.
i wish i could write about anything else, but everything seems redundant. the dissociation comes and goes, but i’m just starting to think it’s a fancy term for daydreaming.
happy monday
crashed into a ditch cause i daydreamed about biking to tillsonburg to give my dead best friend the piece of quartz i got from a medium.
at least i wasn’t driving a car (i guess).
“Once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” - Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami
(Source: mystandards, via persephone-project)
i talk so flippantly about ‘those’ people, because i am one of them; the people who have had so much tragedy in their cards but are still hopeful and funny and compassionate, and we’re fucking trying, okay?
these are my friends. these are the people i surround myself with - the ones who make me want to love myself when i’ve spent years hating my body and mind and the eerie little blips i feel creeping in from some other place. i don’t hate these things so much right now. it’s been a slow understanding, but i’ve embarked on this journey aided by a strong presence; i’m not sure what i need to do, but it’s something important. all will be revealed with patience, and i sleep a little easier now, knowing that i have this little vortex in my chest connecting me with others.
i’ve been drifting through periods of relapse and binge drinking and illness and wanderlust and falling in and out of love with everything and everyone; i’m a foggy little mess, but there’s a hermit in the marshlands holding a lantern so brightly it burns through the tiny vessels in my eyelids, right through my vacuous, silly head, and out through a hole in the back of my skull. it causes me to dream of musicians overdosing and forests burning and trainwrecks on mountain tops and rotting animals crying for help.
each time, you are there. but you aren’t there.
you are here. but you aren’t here.
so the problem here (and there), is that i can’t sleep. nor can i be awake. i’m torn. the reality is pleasant enough, with people and things to distract me. except for the fact that you are not here. and the unreality is horrifying, but at least you’re there.
is this really a dilemma? it’s nearing 6am and i haven’t slept properly in a long time, so i suppose it could be considered as such.
regardless, i’m disturbed tonight. your birthdate is fast approaching and i need to fill my head with something of yours but my heart still hurts so fucking much. i have a half-hatched idea to finish this tattoo, at the place we nearly passed out in years ago (i from the pain and the needle dangling out of my nose, you from the sight of me and then the sound of my cartilage popping; squeezing each others’ hands, as to remind that yes, i’m still here, you’re still here).
is that too much? to start something the day you die, and finish it the day you were born?
