(no subject)
To some people I know self destruction is a phase in their lives, something bad, for awhile, for their grandoise moment. To me its become me, part of me, a fact of life, that this heart can't cooperate with the mind, and that this soul is splitting in this skin. But amidst all this, I am quietly content with things such as littering my room with tealights and linking pinky fingers with him out of school. I don't know I'm just tired tonight and hungry, and I know whats bothering me.
We bought a cactus and named it Jack Sparrow. He's the newest edition to our family. Zil says a cat (kitten) will be next, then he said we should get more cacti and name them all. Create some sort of cacti garden in the shelves of my room. He wants to get a bed perfect for tying hands and legs and really just curling up in. I wanted flower seeds so we could plant them in our garden, but I couldn't find any. Daffodils? Roses? Will they survive the hot hot heat here anyway? Well there's a lot of rain nowadays. Then we took a blissful sunlight filtered through glass busride, with him squinting because he hates sunlight. And I'm in love with it. So I suppose I'm Romeo and he's Juliet.
I think the best way someone has described me, (or was it my writings? same thing anyway) is as tender and tragic. I'm not so tragic as people like to make me be, I'm not a really a heap of nihilistic mess and poppycock. The fact that I'm still writing about planting flowers and sunlight means I'm quite lucid still. I don't have episodes anymore, just long intervals of sunkeness, but in that hollow I have a lot of love. See I love my life, but I hate myself. Its very simple.
I'm not so bruised as Mathilda.
We bought a cactus and named it Jack Sparrow. He's the newest edition to our family. Zil says a cat (kitten) will be next, then he said we should get more cacti and name them all. Create some sort of cacti garden in the shelves of my room. He wants to get a bed perfect for tying hands and legs and really just curling up in. I wanted flower seeds so we could plant them in our garden, but I couldn't find any. Daffodils? Roses? Will they survive the hot hot heat here anyway? Well there's a lot of rain nowadays. Then we took a blissful sunlight filtered through glass busride, with him squinting because he hates sunlight. And I'm in love with it. So I suppose I'm Romeo and he's Juliet.
I think the best way someone has described me, (or was it my writings? same thing anyway) is as tender and tragic. I'm not so tragic as people like to make me be, I'm not a really a heap of nihilistic mess and poppycock. The fact that I'm still writing about planting flowers and sunlight means I'm quite lucid still. I don't have episodes anymore, just long intervals of sunkeness, but in that hollow I have a lot of love. See I love my life, but I hate myself. Its very simple.
I'm not so bruised as Mathilda.