A Slight Exaggeration: A Series of Notes Written to Myself During Classes | 16 December 2015
The last section of my notebook was dedicated to my thoughts, creative process, and general class induced bordom. I'm throwing the pages away, because they're taking up space, but I'm going to type up a few of the entries here.
Incarceration Vol. 2
August 24th
Anxious brains filled with nothing but noise, she's dressed in black, inside and out. She spits out words to keep the bad taste out of her mouth, but it only works part of the time. Halfway through the day, she has a cup of the strongest coffee she can possibly make just to keep her eyes glued wide open. It's a rather cold day in August, forty-two degrees fahrenheit at a quarter to eight in the morning. She wasn't planning on wearing a sweater so soon in the semester, but this lack of sleep has her so cold
Something
August 26th
Fifteen minutes to write something meaninfgul, but I'm lacking the words and phrases. There's no feeling, I've become numb again. Maybe that has a lot to do with setting, but who really knows. I'm a sucker for places with sad people and I love covering wounds with bandages.
Cerulean
August 31st
This is the last time, I think, but my pen's already ahead of me and I can't stop. I thought I finished writing about you years ago, and I wasn't expecting you to come back into my life in a rush of cerulean hues. You smile. I can't breathe. And I can't tell if I want to live forever or slam my head into a brick wall until I die.
Infected
September 2nd
When did writing become so fucking difficult? I want to tell these pages about the darkness in a well lit room, and cerulean oceans behind my eyes. I just need it out of me because I can't concentrate.
Disappointment
September 9th
Is it possible to die from disappointment? Because if it is, that's probably how I'm going out. I used to say I'd die from over-caffeination, but now I think that's less of a threat. My expectations aren't even that high, how do I keep letting this happen to me?
A Slight Exaggeration
September 13th
She runs through burning houses to escape it. There are walls covered, dripping with blood and it coveres her from head to toe. She will never be clean again. Always the broken, careful to not break anything else. She hates what it means to be lovesick and waiting for someone else's eyes to fly open, but nobody will ever look at her and say, "Oh, there you are." So she runs. Her feet pound concrete relentlessly and her lungs protest their overuse and abuse, but she can't stop or forget why she's running.
Dead
September 14th
The LED light on my phone is blinking red. The battery is running low again. I don't wnt to know what it's like to feel dead just yet. I could sit in your room for hours and listen to you talk about films and music. It scares the shit out of me. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm doing it anyway, despite my exhaustion.
September is a Wasteland
September 21st
Will I be fine with
his name that I wrote
in black fucking ink
six months from now
or will i see it scrawled on
every page like happy thoughts
only to have it tear me to shreds with
all one thousand of its tiny sharp teeth?
Maybe it will feel like autumn days and nights
spent intoxicated and cold,
inside and inseparable.
Will it even matter to me at that point?
Or will I be able to say
"I can live without you?"
Mess
September 24th
We spoke in codes and cliches, and I remember when you used to care about what I had to say. You smelled like highway wind and hospitals. I was your trashcan. You dumped all the bad parts of yourself into me. We drove for hours in the middle of the night and you let me think we could take over the world together. We'd speak until I blacked out from exhaustion, or maybe from the pills, in the passenger seat of your car. You'd take me home and make sure I got inside, and then, next Saturday, we'd do it all over again. Months later, I miss the destruction and all of your mess, even though I know you got sick of me in the end. I want your mess in my head, behind my eyes, and I'll keep your hell in my pocket. However, at the same time, I wish I'd never met you.
It Hurts Until it Doesn't
October 12th
I guess it's been five days since I last wrote and nothing great has happened yet. There are fragile moments stuck on the film inside my Canon and yesterday's clothes lay on the floor like a body. I stare at the body, I knew her well. Her last words came from the bottom of a shot glass filled with cherry vodka and they tasted too much like heartstrings and the blank pages in a journal. She won't get a funeral because I want to forget about what she said to him, about the feelings stuck at the back of our throat. I can't believe she let them out. She smells like a liquor store, heart like a clock with dead batteries. I push the thought of her from my mind. She is me.and I begin to tell my reflection about the apology I owe him.
This Christmas
December 9th
I don't want to talk about Christmas. I want it all to go back to the way it was when I was excited to see Dad and Grandma was cancer-free. Or maybe I want us to be different people this year. Happy people. With enough money to live comfortably. Or maybe I just want to walk through my house with my eyes closed, so I don't have to see all the things that remind me of the past.
Incarceration Vol. 2
August 24th
Anxious brains filled with nothing but noise, she's dressed in black, inside and out. She spits out words to keep the bad taste out of her mouth, but it only works part of the time. Halfway through the day, she has a cup of the strongest coffee she can possibly make just to keep her eyes glued wide open. It's a rather cold day in August, forty-two degrees fahrenheit at a quarter to eight in the morning. She wasn't planning on wearing a sweater so soon in the semester, but this lack of sleep has her so cold
Something
August 26th
Fifteen minutes to write something meaninfgul, but I'm lacking the words and phrases. There's no feeling, I've become numb again. Maybe that has a lot to do with setting, but who really knows. I'm a sucker for places with sad people and I love covering wounds with bandages.
Cerulean
August 31st
This is the last time, I think, but my pen's already ahead of me and I can't stop. I thought I finished writing about you years ago, and I wasn't expecting you to come back into my life in a rush of cerulean hues. You smile. I can't breathe. And I can't tell if I want to live forever or slam my head into a brick wall until I die.
Infected
September 2nd
When did writing become so fucking difficult? I want to tell these pages about the darkness in a well lit room, and cerulean oceans behind my eyes. I just need it out of me because I can't concentrate.
Disappointment
September 9th
Is it possible to die from disappointment? Because if it is, that's probably how I'm going out. I used to say I'd die from over-caffeination, but now I think that's less of a threat. My expectations aren't even that high, how do I keep letting this happen to me?
A Slight Exaggeration
September 13th
She runs through burning houses to escape it. There are walls covered, dripping with blood and it coveres her from head to toe. She will never be clean again. Always the broken, careful to not break anything else. She hates what it means to be lovesick and waiting for someone else's eyes to fly open, but nobody will ever look at her and say, "Oh, there you are." So she runs. Her feet pound concrete relentlessly and her lungs protest their overuse and abuse, but she can't stop or forget why she's running.
Dead
September 14th
The LED light on my phone is blinking red. The battery is running low again. I don't wnt to know what it's like to feel dead just yet. I could sit in your room for hours and listen to you talk about films and music. It scares the shit out of me. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm doing it anyway, despite my exhaustion.
September is a Wasteland
September 21st
Will I be fine with
his name that I wrote
in black fucking ink
six months from now
or will i see it scrawled on
every page like happy thoughts
only to have it tear me to shreds with
all one thousand of its tiny sharp teeth?
Maybe it will feel like autumn days and nights
spent intoxicated and cold,
inside and inseparable.
Will it even matter to me at that point?
Or will I be able to say
"I can live without you?"
Mess
September 24th
We spoke in codes and cliches, and I remember when you used to care about what I had to say. You smelled like highway wind and hospitals. I was your trashcan. You dumped all the bad parts of yourself into me. We drove for hours in the middle of the night and you let me think we could take over the world together. We'd speak until I blacked out from exhaustion, or maybe from the pills, in the passenger seat of your car. You'd take me home and make sure I got inside, and then, next Saturday, we'd do it all over again. Months later, I miss the destruction and all of your mess, even though I know you got sick of me in the end. I want your mess in my head, behind my eyes, and I'll keep your hell in my pocket. However, at the same time, I wish I'd never met you.
It Hurts Until it Doesn't
October 12th
I guess it's been five days since I last wrote and nothing great has happened yet. There are fragile moments stuck on the film inside my Canon and yesterday's clothes lay on the floor like a body. I stare at the body, I knew her well. Her last words came from the bottom of a shot glass filled with cherry vodka and they tasted too much like heartstrings and the blank pages in a journal. She won't get a funeral because I want to forget about what she said to him, about the feelings stuck at the back of our throat. I can't believe she let them out. She smells like a liquor store, heart like a clock with dead batteries. I push the thought of her from my mind. She is me.and I begin to tell my reflection about the apology I owe him.
This Christmas
December 9th
I don't want to talk about Christmas. I want it all to go back to the way it was when I was excited to see Dad and Grandma was cancer-free. Or maybe I want us to be different people this year. Happy people. With enough money to live comfortably. Or maybe I just want to walk through my house with my eyes closed, so I don't have to see all the things that remind me of the past.