i’m turning into everything i never wanted to be. change and adapt. change and adapt. just breathe just breathe just one more step just one more step

because now i have mantras for everything. for everything needed to keep me from crashing off this teeny-tiny ledge i decided to climb up on. and like an idiot child balancing on train tracks to get a better look at that large on-coming hulk of brilliant machinery, i’ve decided to play with dragon fire (which everyone knows is the worst kind. or that’s what all of my fantasy books i keep reading tell me). and i’ve elected not to use proper grammar, or capitalization. not for any statement, but because i know the rules (haphazardly anyways, sleeping seemed much more important then my free public high school education at the time) so i’ve decided i can break all of those rules and just roll out on my own. and i know i’ll never craft the Fitzgerald-esque sentence of my dreams, but i let go of those long ago, because i didn’t have the sort of training necessary to hold onto a slick fish (i’ll never make it in pikes place as a fish-throwing entertainer).

i have to make this little patch of ink mean something, otherwise my rash (not really) decision will have been for nothing.

True

you opened your mouth and asked, so don’t be surprised when i finally opened mine back up and started talking. now i’m not sure i want to shut it up again, because it was such a relief to bleed out some of the poison that has been passing over and over again through my heart and brain. and with each little “lub” and each resounding “dub” i’m letting myself die more and more and more. this is not a physical dying, and it doesnt manifest in physical pain.

its emotional dying. tearing up each and every moment i shouldn’t be, its a breaking down of walls i used to have an re-enforcing ones i didn’t have a year and a half ago. so peter pan came back from neverland, and snagged an innocent alice out of wonderland on his way. its two too-young adults playing with responsibilities they shouldn’t have been given. and this is not the way i want to feel, not anymore.

It hurts

to wake up and not care. to summon the energy to get out of bed and move. This shouldn’t be a chore.

but the passion bled out of me with each little pinprick I found on my skin. Pouring out of a “v” or an “r”. Or maybe an “n” or an “e”. But this isn’t something I could scrape off the ground. Passion, like neurons, doesn’t grow back.

So damn whoever stopped creating new stem-cell lines, because I’d like a small injection just above my left lung. one that promises to lift this apathy and to kick-start creativity. Because I’m ripping out more lines than I keep.

I’ll keep on keeping on, happy as that proverbial clam. And hopefully, just as quiet as that clam too. I could learn a lesson or two from them, though not from the oysters who gladly left the ocean to follow the carpenter.

I think

I want to know that someone, somewhere knows how to say what I can’t. Or that they get what I’m trying to say, and can say it better. Even strangers know the inner chambers of our hearts.

i’m pulling old thoughts and putting them into one spot.

finally.

BACK

and better then ever.

I’m a raving mess of Christmas excitement, running around with “santa claws” socks, making a christmas themed blanket and being brow-beaten by enforced Christmas cheer courtesy of one corporation called Starbucks. so meow, and hand me a hot chocolate in a themed mug please.

vapours:

Don’t even try to tell me this is not the cutest thing ever. Don’t even try.

by Lucy Cooke on vimeo.

(Source: childrenslaughter)

this kid is SUCH a champ. wish I knew how to do that…

lloudermilk:

her name is robin.

(Source: lskywalkers)

"If you are going through hell, keep going"

Winston Churchill