Im Grateful For The Good In People, And How Kind They Are To Give Some Of That Goodness To Me.

i’m grateful for the good in people, and how kind they are to give some of that goodness to me. ❤︎

paramore’s performance of last hope at bonnaroo 2023 was life changing for me and i think we all moved on a little too fast

little painted town

Pale little houses on little old streets, where garden figures line the sheen-less bricks. Little old trees bare from the winter, pressed against a blue-grey sky. Little stone graves and little gray fences, hovering over the dead yellow grass. Little winding streets and windy pine trees, with their little pale houses on their little old streets. Little black crows and little dead bushes, a strong cold breeze almost blowing them away. Little home businesses and little barren lots Next to little pale houses on their little old plots.

no longer mine

Most days, I can look out the window and let the breeze remind me. But other days, it refuses to penetrate my heavy fog of despair. I will sit there and ask it to go by. I may even beg for it to. But those days do not allow it. There is an insufferable fluid in the air that separates me from reality. And this fluid - the breeze - they work against each other. The fluid, the fog, they surround me. They keep me in. The breeze cannot cut through this tangible dampness. Most days, it can remind me; the fog is cleared and I can feel the breeze once more. But other days, the strength of the stifling fluid in the air is too much for the breeze to bear. It is too much for me to bear. When there is no breeze, no window, no sun, the fluid drowns me. I can walk, talk, survive, yes, but live? The fog does not allow me to live. It stifles and drowns from a layer just beneath my skin. My body may still operate, and you may ask it questions, it may answer you, but it is not me. I am trapped beneath the choking blanket of fog that rests under my skin, and it seeps through, forming a sort of bubble around the body I inhabit. The body you talk to, laugh with, work alongside - that body is not me. I am on the inside, screaming, begging for control. There is no breeze to ask for, there is no window to sit by, and the sun is gone. I can do nothing but wish for this body back, plead for another chance at autonomy. But the fog will grow stronger. The fluid will clog my ears and nose and tug at my eyes to shut. It knows, both the fluid, and the body, that even if I did have my chance at control, I’d waste it. The fog reminds me that I will miss my shot every time. My body ruins itself in efforts of aggression towards me. I sulk next to it, dragging through the fluid. There comes a point where I ask myself if this is now “most days.” Because “most days” used to make sense, they used to be mine to seize. But even with the window open and the breeze coming in, it seems like most days are no longer mine.

making unnecessary pmore purchases and labeling them as “self care” bc i can

tall and skinny trees

covered from root to tip in leaves

scaling mountains as far as you can see