Whiteout

Whiteout

I refuse to use whiteout on these pages. Let them see that pain is not perfect. That these words do not know how to grasp my emotion. That some things cannot be erased. Will not be erased. That things can always be changed without being made to look like they never existed. That things can have mistakes and flaws and scratch marks and added parts and still be a patchwork quilt of beautiful. Let this be the only place where mistakes really do allow you to make things better. 

And she swore she lost pieces of herself to the wind. 💛

Despite all of this. I did not fall in love with her because she was broken. I did not fall in love with her because I found it captivating how the light refracted of her broken pieces casting shadows and blinding colourful light dazzling those around her. No. Yes I loved her for her broken too. Because when you love someone with depression you love their monsters too. But no. I fell in love with her because she owned her broken. She did.not push it away. Try to drown it in her own tears. I fell in love with her because she knew that she was not broken. That she was fractured over and over again everyday and she knew that humans we're capable of amazing things. Like healing, and defying odds and learning to love again. I fell in love with her because she made the most of the time when she could breath. She talked. So much. She laughed. So loud. She smiled and ranted and dazzled those around her. And she did not need the light to refract off her to captivate people. Her jagged edges and smooth surface and her existence did that. She did that all on her own. When she spoke people rolled their eyes and smiled and listened. When she wrote. My god when she wrote. Their are no words to express the masterpieces she spinned with her thoughts fingers weaving unforgiving sentences that would hold you captive and you would love in every  gripping moment and sometimes you want to stop. You don't want to read  this anymore. Feelings  spilling over this dam you have built around your  soul and yet you cannot let go until they said you could. She wrote unimaginable joy and heart shattering grief, she wrote excruciating  pain with metaphors that made you gasp for air. On the bad days. On the bad days she is still broken glass. Fragile and breakable and jagged. Except their is no light. She lives in a box that removed her from the world blocks the light out. Everything seems dimmer un important not worth it. She feels dimmer un important not worth it. She stares at the pane of glass that is her heart. The serrated edges. The cracks that are still healing the chips in the glass that will take longer than forever to heal. She looks in the mirror and says how.ugly. what an awful sight. And so she cuts herself on her sharp edges trying to pull them off...but she applied to.much pressure all she does is bleed and break the glass even more. I don't understand but sometimes when all you have left is yourself self-destruction is such a sweet saviour.

And So I Write

You will undoubtedly find pieces of myself littered haphazardly among these pages. You will find them strewn about in every paragraph. Every Sentance. Every phrase. In every word. 

Sometimes when I need to give, pieces of myself, and I have lost all the people I throw myself away to... I turn to these pages. To lose myself to. And yet, when I know I must, I cannot. The words will hit a roadblock somewhere. My fingers itching and yet unable to find the words. 

And so I write anyways.

I write this. I write that. I write it all. Nonsense and gibberish. I write. When I have words but do not know what they have to say. Put pen to paper and find release among lost pieces of myself. Let the backlog of thoughts disperse through words and ink. Incoherent and Intangible. 

Whether or not it makes sense doesn't matter in the moment. All that matters is the words flowing through me, thrumming in my veins, making up all that I am. ANd so I make them real. Give them a place to exist so that they may grant me temporary peace, and so that I may exist without a buildup of unsaid words chocking me. Building up in my chest, filling my lungs, making it hard to breathe.

And so I write. 

I write the nothingness into something. Let the thoughts I can not articulate flow out through pieces they do not relate to but rather let their tortured vocabulary enlighten my release.   ‘

And so I write.

And leave a couple more pieces of myself folded in these pages, stained in ink. So when I am not whole, I can remind myself that once I had excess parts of myself to give. And I left them behind.

So now and then, I write.

She brought with herself the calm of the ocean but also the tidal waves 💙 (Kinda reminds me of the selection)

The accuracy is painful...

that awesome moment when you finished reading a really good book and you see it at a store then you cunningly smile at it as if you had an affair with it.