All this. Only this.
My stride is strong even against the smoke and it’s ability to consume the lungs of time. I so very wish I could decipher a cluster of words to express what I feel, what I know, and what I have yet to understand. In two days I am placing myself in an unfamiliar life that’s full of chain smokers to cloud my days. I’m leaving home. I start a new job. Two days a week I’ll spend my days glued to notepads and ballpoint pens. I am ditching gas and comfort for a few extra dollars in my pocket. I’m looking for ways to bid my time as I realize I can’t bid like I did before. I so very wish I could tell you if these are complaints or merely the excursion of a person at eighteen years old. Whenever I picture these ideas of change, I do not smile. Nor do I sigh at the measure of dubious situations that will occur. Is it terrible to be indifferent about this new empire I’ve decided to build? I have no expectations for what is to come because it will soon become routine. I so very hope I’m wrong. I hope my days are spent sucking in the smoke and challenging my own lungs of time.
What’s too far?
Where you are.
"I like my body
when it is with your body."
— e. e. cummings
speaking your name makes it all real, and i feel weak by letting things spill out.
i don’t want to write about you because i’m fearful it will become tangible.
i want you kept inside my mind. but you may not be safe there.
"enormous pockets, heavy boots"
I only have six days of high school left and it’s intriguing and it also scares me to pieces. Failure doesn’t scare me, I’ve failed all my life and have learned to cope, re-evaluate, and aim and ignite to whatever battle that shot cannons heavy into my mind. This is nothing new and has helped with my slow growing process into a human of our culture, which is what happens when you’re seventeen; you see and live the culture of the world you admire and battle with. I’m in pieces because I’m fearful of failure that doesn’t lead me through the rivers, canals, and pathways that transport me to a state I can call, or society can call, success; the failure that builds, never endures or processes or breathes, but builds towers. I’m fearful of the way failure can creep up time after time and instead of steer the boat, it weighs down with regrets and the unfulfilled life I’ve chosen. How heavy can things become before they are ripped to shreds and float into the air like they never existed? How heavy can my boat get until I suffocate due to tied tongues, unworthy thoughts, and fear itself? How heavy can my mind become until it’s not mine anymore?
i have so many questions to ask
but i know that truth
will not be
who answers me back
"One must accept the fact that others don’t see what you do."
— Louise Bourgeois, Artist (via honeymooninthefridge)