A Single Drop Can Fall Forever.
I've mistakenly quarantined my writing, kept it molding in a polished anxiety bucket that sits in a depressed corner of my Italian villa draped with dust, and to bring it out to cleanse it equates facing my truths and my errors alike.
I feel romantically desolate. However, I have clumsily returned to a singular focus: a long-term, cinematically off-and-on fellow known for our inevitable confusion of dedication, sexual openness that bounces from delicate loveliness to happy pattern, complete with the rejuvenation of miles and miles of inner and outer conflict. All strung together and gathering knots. He's a strong piece of loyalty that's not gone unnoticed, perhaps an exhausting bit of comfort to take advantage of, but I've walked back into involvement nonetheless. Now, whether I am willing because of loneliness that tends to choke individuality or for the most genuine of rekindled interest and passion, I couldn't say. More than likely, I am attempting to steadily avoid that analysis because I fear the conclusion that would unattractively spit itself out.
I need love that challenges and frees and sweeps me off into an entirely new, wild, and intoxicating territory. Something that causes story. That creates beauty, abolishes negativity, surpasses magic, destroys hate, and makes a kiss feel like snow. That keeps me awake at night with the fireflies.
Oh, sigh and abomination.
On one of those thirty-years-old-and-proud-of-themselves notes, I've been exercising daily. A little over an hour, painful at first, but it's had a significant impact on my mental state. I'm a bit happier, a tad firmer in lucky places, and while it's not enough for me to ooh and ahh over my new to-die-for body, I'm assuming I might get there. And for whosoever might dare to think "But by golly, you're a skinny thing!", know that thin and in-shape do not stroll side-by-side. I'm nearing twenty years of age, goddammit, and I think I deserve to be hot by now. For once.
I desperately need a regular soul to dump my own negative excess into. I've long since lost the continuity of a best friend, a concrete pair of ears to actually depend on, so I've resorted to keeping it all bunched inside like a tangle of hairs in a drain (each sadness plucked and lost one by one). So much so, in fact, that I'll find days where I will cry without much hard reason and continue in that act, ignoring the pleas of an individual alongside me to explain why or what it is. I've lost the ability to discuss myself. It will take healing to relearn it.
I often feel guilty. I often feel like a nuisance. I often ask the other person about their life to avoid a potential spotlight on my own.
I've been reading Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie and have found it to be childishly delightful. The words are sewn together with a lovely sound, and the matter-of-fact way that purely fantastical things are described has my little heart beating out sunshine rhythms. Er. But honestly, simple lines such as "Father is a cowardly custard," from Michael to his father regarding his father's inability to swallow the very same medicine that Michael is being forced to ingest has my insides twirling.
If I had but one drop of that magic to taste in reality.
I feel romantically desolate. However, I have clumsily returned to a singular focus: a long-term, cinematically off-and-on fellow known for our inevitable confusion of dedication, sexual openness that bounces from delicate loveliness to happy pattern, complete with the rejuvenation of miles and miles of inner and outer conflict. All strung together and gathering knots. He's a strong piece of loyalty that's not gone unnoticed, perhaps an exhausting bit of comfort to take advantage of, but I've walked back into involvement nonetheless. Now, whether I am willing because of loneliness that tends to choke individuality or for the most genuine of rekindled interest and passion, I couldn't say. More than likely, I am attempting to steadily avoid that analysis because I fear the conclusion that would unattractively spit itself out.
I need love that challenges and frees and sweeps me off into an entirely new, wild, and intoxicating territory. Something that causes story. That creates beauty, abolishes negativity, surpasses magic, destroys hate, and makes a kiss feel like snow. That keeps me awake at night with the fireflies.
Oh, sigh and abomination.
On one of those thirty-years-old-and-proud-of-themselves notes, I've been exercising daily. A little over an hour, painful at first, but it's had a significant impact on my mental state. I'm a bit happier, a tad firmer in lucky places, and while it's not enough for me to ooh and ahh over my new to-die-for body, I'm assuming I might get there. And for whosoever might dare to think "But by golly, you're a skinny thing!", know that thin and in-shape do not stroll side-by-side. I'm nearing twenty years of age, goddammit, and I think I deserve to be hot by now. For once.
I desperately need a regular soul to dump my own negative excess into. I've long since lost the continuity of a best friend, a concrete pair of ears to actually depend on, so I've resorted to keeping it all bunched inside like a tangle of hairs in a drain (each sadness plucked and lost one by one). So much so, in fact, that I'll find days where I will cry without much hard reason and continue in that act, ignoring the pleas of an individual alongside me to explain why or what it is. I've lost the ability to discuss myself. It will take healing to relearn it.
I often feel guilty. I often feel like a nuisance. I often ask the other person about their life to avoid a potential spotlight on my own.
I've been reading Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie and have found it to be childishly delightful. The words are sewn together with a lovely sound, and the matter-of-fact way that purely fantastical things are described has my little heart beating out sunshine rhythms. Er. But honestly, simple lines such as "Father is a cowardly custard," from Michael to his father regarding his father's inability to swallow the very same medicine that Michael is being forced to ingest has my insides twirling.
If I had but one drop of that magic to taste in reality.