just keep moving don’t think about the things you’ve left being the people you’ve left behind, you don’t need them and you never did. push forward onwards to better places don’t think about the things you’ll never be able to do the friends you’ll never make because you couldn’t stay still long enough to let anyone know you.
pack it all up- complain about all the things that weigh you down but forget why you wanted them in the first place forget why you have to leave- the going is hard enough, leave no room for doubt in your soul. It is as it is as it has always been.
hunt out the things you merely want to have- give them away think of someone who can make you smile, a deserving heart for the things you wished to keep find someone whose day will be brightened by it and let it go. possessions are a weakness of the soul
Collect the things you can take- addresses, phone numbers, knowledge, catch yourself sneaking trinkets of sentiment, beware the voice that says “it won’t take much space” your shoulders are heavy enough your pack too full-
Some days you will wake up ready to cut out a swath of your life and the possessions that go with it, like cutting a balloon loose from it’s weight- regret is not always so heavy after all, but beware the choice- what is willingly cast away never returns the same, and you will work twice as hard to be less than you were. still, it is something.
Above all, always keep moving keep a weather eye out for new horizons keep an eye on the road Doubt grows in the tired soul and scorpio knows better than to stop.
that I used to seperate my skin with purpose.
the first, a razor blade- given by a friend
as part of a repair kit
that I used for many years
before trying to fix myself at 45˚
with a quick motion
faster then hesitation
biting my lip
I thought “that wasn’t so bad”
and kept it with a lighter, bound with a rubber band.
The second, a little knife-
glimpsed at a stationary store
I saw it in a new light
and I bought it with a purpose in the back of my mind.
just in case I needed it someday
always a good thing to have
because someday came around quick.
I found my first blades today
digging through some stuff I had stashed with a friend
Packed in a tool kit
the things I brought from home.
It’s a strange feeling.
I found my first blades today
Spotted with rust around the points
where the coating had worn off from being sterilized with fire
because that was my system.
I remember tucking them into my things
“just in case”
I remember thinking
I would have expected myself to have gotten into something like this long ago.
In retrospect, I did.
but in a way too subtle for myself
pinches and scratches with nails clipped to points for defense
against others, or myself.
There was a mechenical pencil
with a metal tip
and one day I found out that if I jabbed it into my skin
at the right angle
blood would rise from the scrapes
If I drew a my nails across my body
I could raise lines of red and white
and for a while, it was enough.
I’ve always kept it a secret
less out of shame
more out of being a shitty test case
just some emo trash
who wanted to hurt herself
in a more romantic way
“I just want to see what it’s like is all”
driven less by depression
than a mix
of curiosity, emptiness, apathy
who pushed past the fear of willing harm
and turned around to find it gone
like confronting a monster in a dream
and finding it harmless
I threw together a song and it came out nice. It’s not terribly polished, but I’m okay with it and sometimes that’s enough.
I’m too legit to conform to late night shitposting.
I used to lie away at night and contemplate existence-
think about the fragility of life while i stared at the clock, willing the numbers to slow down-
time, the essence of life itself constantly plodding on
-But I moved on,
and I will tell you my secrets because it’s 4 in the morning somewhere and secrets are for spilling like the blood that spills from our bodies and the tears that don’t when we are hurt-
and we all hurt-
time heals all things but there are an awful lot of people out there and I’d wonder if there’s enough time to go around
but that’s gone now-
Time is a construct we made to ease our minds but it’s grown too small to hold our hearts
like bathrooms too narrow for our souls and in the end is is our bodies who suffer for us….
they say boxes are for squares but who cares when all I’ve known is a bed too short for my feet-
and you’d kill for a chair that won’t make your back ache- if they want to start with a blank slate then let them
but I need to rest for a few while I wallow in that and the fact-
life goes on while the skrubs get rekt and I don’t know if I’m playing the wrong server or the wrong game
but nothing matters because we’re all dying one day.
so you can keep your sadness all season long but I’m oceans ahead of you buddy
tripping on eternalism while you stumble on bud but that’s okay-
I just needed to believe in a world where tomorrow exists and I’m shitposting in it
because if I talk long enough I might speak something worth saying
instead of just praying to gods I don’t believe in to tell them about what I had for breakfast today
I’m too legit to conform to late night shitposting.
the void is coming for us all and I welcome the return to nothing where we all began
the big bang-
I’ll write my sorrows any time of day while you wait for it to kick in an hour past midnight
with cup in one hand and phone in the other
like a lover
but I’ve got work in the morning and anyway you probably only live once.
That feel when you’re friend, who’s always seemed like a decent enough pretend douchy dudebro, explains to your friend and said friend’s parents over casual conversation that he consciously chooses to date younger girls when he come back from studying overseas because.
He actually said
to my friend’s mom and dad
that they feel lesser and feel like they have to impress him as an senior.
it’s not the conclusion I drew he actually said, the words that came out of his mouth were “They’re easier to deal with and won’t start fights, or if there is a fight, they’ll apologize first” “the thing with dating girls my age is they think they’re equal” and basically that the problem is that they would,
that they would stand up for themselves
like the basic gist was that they’re easier to manipulate
and the parentals were laughing and being all like “ahh, you clever fucker, nice, nice”
and i did not know that was a thing that people did consciously.
but I guess it is.
and I didn’t say anything
and the atmosphere remained cheery.
as they discussed a party the mother was throwing
and if there would be enough booze
((Wherein I copied bits of writing))
A expanding selection from here and there.
“One sticks one’s finger into the soil to tell by the smell in what land one is: I stick my finger in existence — it smells of nothing.
Where am I? Who am I? How came I here?
What is this thing called the world? What does this world mean?
Who is it that has lured me into the world?”
“The masters all painted baskets of fruit, Why? What is it about fruit, That demanded such passionate expression?
Was there a lucrative market of fruit lovers to exploit?
Personally, Fruit doesn’t bake my cake, if you know what I mean.
Now naked babes in the grass, That I can understand, But apples on a dish? What is it they’re trying to say?
Do they tempt us like Eve,
“Buy the apple painting, Maude, big, delicious, juicy, red apples on a porcelain white dish. Buy it, buy it, buy me,”
Whisper the artist’s serpent strokes.
Or maybe It was some deep psychological need – That compelled the depiction of fruit.
There they sit, Inert, In a bowl, or basket or dish.
The artist as pear.
Brimming life immobile. Contained within-
A precious seed Waiting…”
-Kaitlyn Paige Nakamura **, https://joindiaspora.com/posts/1126777
“to me, knitting is exactly like sex.
I can only do it for myself, or someone I hold very dear, and only out of love.
I would never think of doing it for money”
((Last revision: October 2012. Wisdom from 18 year old me.))
Nothing worth smiling about was e’er a waste of time.
Sleep and piss when you can, you never know when you’ll next get a chance.
Try not to think about things too much when you already know what you want to do.
((Last revised: August, 2012))
Made In Paris 2
Pretty much my favorite Breakin’ video
The Prince’s Tale: The bitter tale of Severus Snape.
ALL MY WHAT.
I was thinking that I should start writing here again, and after reading through some of my old posts, found a few old drafts that I’m hoping to wrap up soon. Year old posts about to leave limbo! I’ve changed quite a bit since then, but will finish them in the spirit that each one was started. After that…. NEW CONTENT??????
I love my book collection to death and I’m very grateful that I’m even in a position to amass them, but it also makes me sad to know that the chance that I will actually get to share them with the people I care about is basically zero. Like, I know these fantastic people who love to read and I’m in another frickin’ continent sitting on about 300 books (they don’t fit on the shelves unless I double-stack now) that I value so much, and when I chat with my friends about books I just want to reach for the shelf and say “Here, this is my favourite book, will you read it?”
Sometimes I look at the shelves and think about how much time all those books represent- for the writing and the readings- it’s kind of staggering, you know?
And yet it’s a bit of an empty feeling. I’m lucky enough that my mother supported my love of hardcovers so- I remember we would send a bag of secondhand books back from the states when the USPS still had the M Bag, a freight bag for books only that took a few months to arrive but was cheaper.
Hardcover books that were meant to be read by more then two people. Made to withstand many more readings then this.
I love them and I know them and some of them have chunks falling out and I remember when I sat on that one and left a crease and who else will love them because please, let there be someone else who takes joy in them and let me know them.
I’m sitting here putting nice bookplates in my favourites and what is the fucking point of it all, who will ever read it? I still remember the times I have lent out books-
a friend I grew up with: I gave him Cirque Du Freak about 4 years ago so he could try the english version after liking the translation, Sh*t My Dad Says he took to the army when he was conscripted- they were impressed that he could read English, and recently, The Vampire’s Assistant.
A caregiver from Malaysia: the Artemis Fowl books- she enjoyed them up until the fourth, not liking the demons in it.
That’s basically it. I know I won’t (and can’t) bing them with me when I move on, and the thought of them sitting alone, unread, and gathering dust makes me sad.
(My books, the last year that everything fit on the shelves properly)