Desire
I want to build something wild and free. Something that swoops and curls and forms waves, and makes you want to run your hand along it's curve, through sheer, aching delight of its line. Something without rules - even that rule - something untamed and raw and unapologetic. Definitely unapologetic. I wrote bad fantasy when I was a girl. I'm not a girl anymore. I want to let that knowledge reach my heart. I think it will nest there, and then suddenly unfurl and blossom, like a fast forwarded film of a rosebud.
I'm obsessed with Amanda Palmer today. I'm not sure why. Maybe because she looks like I always wanted to feel. Or how I look to myself on the inside. Maybe there was never any hope for me being a slim chick. Maybe it takes being a hard-core muso, who lives on the road for months out of the year, eating nothing but twinkies and living on stolen cups of coffee, cigarettes, free drugs and festival burger van produce.
I have my heart. I have my breath. I have my body, when I remember it's there. I don't know if I have my mind. It sometimes feels like a scooped out vacancy in an ice cream tub. Maybe I have been writing all this time, inside. And occasionally, throughout the years, tap into it and out comes a flood of words and it's so different, so moved on, to what it was previously in mood, that it's the evidence.
I wanna be punk. I wanna be different. I wanna change something. I wanna say something. I want to sound like something other than every 20 something on the planet. Maybe this is all I'm ever going to be able to write. Is it enough?
I like this. When I write, it's like I meet myself for the first time in ages, and go 'Ohhhhh. Yeh, I remember you. You've grown up. Hi.'
Why do I always fall in love with other people's romances, more than my own? I hurt, sometimes, when reading about them. It's the desire, I think, to be included, no matter what, or where I go. I'm so in love with stories, that sometimes I forget my own.
I'm obsessed with Amanda Palmer today. I'm not sure why. Maybe because she looks like I always wanted to feel. Or how I look to myself on the inside. Maybe there was never any hope for me being a slim chick. Maybe it takes being a hard-core muso, who lives on the road for months out of the year, eating nothing but twinkies and living on stolen cups of coffee, cigarettes, free drugs and festival burger van produce.
I have my heart. I have my breath. I have my body, when I remember it's there. I don't know if I have my mind. It sometimes feels like a scooped out vacancy in an ice cream tub. Maybe I have been writing all this time, inside. And occasionally, throughout the years, tap into it and out comes a flood of words and it's so different, so moved on, to what it was previously in mood, that it's the evidence.
I wanna be punk. I wanna be different. I wanna change something. I wanna say something. I want to sound like something other than every 20 something on the planet. Maybe this is all I'm ever going to be able to write. Is it enough?
I like this. When I write, it's like I meet myself for the first time in ages, and go 'Ohhhhh. Yeh, I remember you. You've grown up. Hi.'
Why do I always fall in love with other people's romances, more than my own? I hurt, sometimes, when reading about them. It's the desire, I think, to be included, no matter what, or where I go. I'm so in love with stories, that sometimes I forget my own.