a while ago, in the midst of winter, the idea of planting a flower entered my head. as i saw everything around me dead and covered in cold, i became fixated with bringing something to life. i told myself that once spring was here, i’d create something beautiful that whispered spring. that laughed summer. one flower became three, and now i finally have my seeds planted. i’m already too attached. no really. they have names and everything. my thoughts of them are already tinted with love. i think they deserve it though – they’re the earth. the sun’s still being shy, but i hope it’ll work anyway. that the seeds will grow and bloom. you take what you get and do what you can, right?
i am eating corn flakes and the sound of them being crushed by my teeth is so loud that i can’t hear the dialogue coming from my computer screen, even though it’s going directly through a chord and through two shells into my ears. up and down my jaw goes.
i think that i have to get into psych to be able to get my tattoos, because to be able to get my tattoos, i have to feel like i’m on my way to getting my shit together and becoming who i want to be. to do that, i have to drop myself into the position of future psych. cause see, if i just get my tattoos, it’ll be like skipping a step. what if i keep going and just look like the person i want to be but there’s this huge piece missing? i can’t just skip a dream. i’ll feel like a phony. i want to go and get what i want. i want
my life my the universe to be mine. and then i want the universe stuck into my skin with a needle.
there were so many cartons to throw away. i pressed them together with my hands, made them flat. then i pressed them into the trash can, cramming them in. trying to make them fit in with the other garbage. then i slammed the cabinet door, and left.
there are some people whose beauty strikes you. it’s instant. their air tastes like magic and for a second, you wonder if it’s real. if any of it is real. then you come closer and you see the flaws. the ugly. the rotten. the shadows under their eyes. the nicotine stains on their lips. and you realize what not resting for weeks and smoking to think really means. you look into their eyes and see what wandering is. what living does to you. some people wouldn’t be beautiful if they weren’t broken. but they are, and it’s breathtaking.
the corn flakes are soggy and gross now and i can hear everything. there’s no dialogue left.