random strings of thought that stick with me
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* date is listed as yyyy-mm-dd for each entry *
every day feels like a regurgitation of itself, disillusioned now after biking the same paths, buying the same fruits. leave the building, grab the gold key, lock the top; then the silver at the bottom in the opposite direction. how am i meant to get anywhere different when each action refutes itself? stepping forward, only difference carved into my shoes from the very gradual friction of the ground.
my obsession with thoughts may be too prurient and drive away any normal person undivided from their lifestyle.
it is me, The Hopeless, who has been shutting doors in her face, claiming there was never a knob to begin with, not knowing these are motion detected, and i haven’t been moving in years. cobwebs and me, i am able to speak and see my words finally stick somewhere, for no one to see. but isn't that art? to create something tangible to the senses, regardless of impact or popularity?
everything is made of cheap synthetic fibers that always linger around 80°F, can i for a second suggest an alternative? no, i am not the best voice to do so. i’ve been talking too much and i need to rest buried in these waxy strings that burn me up and emanate a heat that is in every way artificial despite deriving from the very air that winds through each lung.
there's always a part of me that relates too much to apistat commander's songs, always a part of me that thinks of that drive down to the great salt lake that one night, always a part that notices the empty space in my room. some days it's as subtle as the movement of the clouds, other days it's an unbearable smog that i breathe in, painting my lungs and lively organs a dull gray. i try to pry open my ribs to get rid of the color spreading throughout and before i know it, i've made a mess and caused myself more pain. through smeared makeup trying to run from my body, i cradle my heart and lungs in my bloodied hands and push them back into the warm carcass i call myself. i grab my needle and thread and stitch everything back up hastily, skipping stitches while holding my breath. each time this happens i get closer and closer to the edge of the world as i know it and one day i will run out of thread.
2025-04-30
spring has washed over me in full effect, and as much as it is my favorite season, the circumstances of its arrival muddy the bright greens and pinks.
the colors are the most saturated my life has ever been, for at 24 years old i have a better grasp on who i am.
that being said, i feel crushed. each passion gets charred from excessive indulgence, as i so desperately soak each page in water, almost as if i believe it has healing properties and can reverse the burnt ends. it forms a river, flowing day and night. and, although the river's path is uncertain, i can't help but notice how the flow of the water parallels the trees waving in the spring breeze.