Words Words Words - Tumblr Posts

(You know, for something that was only supposed to be a 500 word drabble, this is getting mighty wordy.)

In which pretty much everyone is exasperated with Holmes except for Wiggins. 

Be with someone who makes you happy.

I get nostalgic for things I’ve never had or experienced. I feel nostalgia for all of the father’s days I should’ve spent with my dad. I love so wholely and so deeply he should be sorry for neglecting my admiration. A girl will always look up to her father until he refuses to look back at her. As I get older, I thought it would hurt less but I actually discovered the pain becomes nostalgia.

looking back through my notes app rn and reading all the words/phrases i furiously scribbled into rememberance. their once inherent meaning is now incomprehensible, lost upon time, but maybe thats why they feel so potent to me.

i will never again understand why 'a candle burning on both ends' was so integral to me at one point or why articulating 'empty ideals' felt like finding a lost piece of my identity. i remember why i wrote '22' (on a particularly miserable tuesday, i was struck by how beautiful it is to depend on having a future. someday i will be 22 and so forth) but i will never again be capable of understanding why this affected me so deeply.

isnt impermanence so beautiful?

depression is best articulated as loneliness imo. its cold and isolating, unrelentless in its ignorance of reality. in moments of clarity, i am able to feel the love my friends so readily give me. but most the time i am alone. i long for what i have.

You are Spring.

tw

three years ago, i found a hershey's bar in my pantry. with shaky hands and a guilty conscience, i broke off a few pieces to eat. i immediately tried to rid myself of the iniquity by attempting to seperate myself from the enemy: calories. i failed to forcibly vomit, so i tried again. and again. and, with no success, again.

i was so irrevocably in love with the concept of beauty that i led myself to such a dark place that i was blind to the beauty already around me. i lived my days in shame and inhibition.

it took years to recover from this mindset. to realize that there is nothing (absolutely nothing!!) to gain from starving. in pursuit of my weight goals, i lost happiness, friends, and my will to live. ana convinces you that this is worthwile, that your obstinance will pay off when you reach a certain weight. it wont!! i promise you!!

mental illness is inherently irrational. it will convince you that it subscribes to logic; it will blind you from reason. its up to you to see past this veil. so, please, ask for help, whether from a parent, friend, medical professional, teacher, whatever!! just ask somebody.

today, i ate a chocolate bar. i did not read the nutrition label until i had finished the candy and begun to fidget with the wrapper. "200 cals" the bar boasted in bold, black letters. the same number as that i read three years ago, but without any of the previous connotation. it was just a number.

three years ago, i was captive to disordered eating. today, i am free, healthy, and genuinely happy.

recovery is beautiful. i promise you, you are worth it.

"I am not well; I could have built the Pyramids with the effort it takes me to cling on to life and reason."

Franz Kafka, Letters to Felize

obsessed rn with the notion that a tree was planted the day i was born. i imagine a lofty redwood (already 65 ft!) imbued with ambitions of touching the sky. protected by lush canopy, it has been weathered by neither neither time nor circumstance. it is sturdy and, when it sways in the wind, it never anticipates plummeting onto the rocky terrain below. we are diametrically different, but we have grown together. idk i just find that so comforting!!

its oftentimes difficult to articulate my experiences when the words i use to define them are so vast. like how do i explain that the panic attacks i experience are completely different than that i often see represented by media and others' anecdotes?

this is not benifited by the seperate issue that my panic attacks are so severe i don't remember them. i can only recollect the sensation of coming back to myself. the paranoid delusions, all-encompassing immobilization, lightheadedness, sweat, irregular heartbeat, paresthesia, etc etc are not properly indicitive of my attacks.

i pathologize my identity, transform my experiences into a catalog of symptoms, so maybe you'll understand. i need help.

if you have reason to write notes you have reason to stay !!

i seek solace in articulation. verbalizing abstract thoughts is one of lifes greatest pleasures imo! diaries, this blog lol, essays, etc i love it all

"we're not out of the tunnel yet, i bet you though theres an end"

is a lyric to 'i will,' a song that captures the beautiful intersection of longing and comfort. mitski wrote it from the prospective of a lover caring for her, comforting her with the words she yearns to hear. this allows its calming prose to be contrasted by an underlying sense of unfufillment.

for many years, i recited this lyric in search of reasurement. it lent me solace and hope for a better future. but what differentiates that perfect future from the present? what was i hoping for?

i eventually came to the realization that i was wishing my life away by continuously waiting for the mundane to be transformed into a magical utopia. i desired to be rid of negative emotions entirely, and would only escape the tunnel by being unequivocally and continuously gratified.

so, i redefined my tunnel!!

i now characterize being out of the tunnel as staying afloat. i allow myself to live in the present and experience a vast array of emotions w/o shame. my only guideline is that i do not drown.

tldr; do not force your values to become fixed. nothing is permant, allow yourself to redefine your tunnels!!

the other day we were talking about balance beams because you said that your family had one of those cool winch ones that wrap around trees to make a high wire. even though i was pretty good i had to quit gymnastics at 12 because we couldn't afford dance and gymnastics but. i had something-other.

and i got excited because i think it's a funny story. i didn't have a door for about 4 years. 13-17, or there about. i only got it back because i replaced it myself.

i think my dad took it off the hinges just because his very-macho friend david had said - i do this to punish my kids. and then about a week later it was down on the ground and then eventually rotting in a shed. i used to visit it on occasion and tilt it between two boxes so i could try to walk across the side of it. i have a scar on my foot from attempting the act of balance-beam fancy dancing. it's shaped like a crescent moon. a hinge sliced into my skin when the whole thing slipped out from underneath me.

and you looked at me and you said - what the fuck?

and i said, do you want to see? because i thought the thing you were replying to was the injury. i was already undoing my shoelaces.

you're supposed to have a door, you said slowly. you were a teenager. you - i've seen your house. you lived at the end of the hall.

i didn't understand the problem. so? i wriggled out of my shoe and then my sock.

so, you said it gently, which made me slow down. you said it in the way people tell me that i experienced something bad and i have no idea that it was supposed to be something-else instead. anyone coming down the stairs or in the hallway could see directly into your room. you were in a fishbowl for four years, am i understanding that correctly?

i stared at you, and then said the other things: well, it wasn't so bad. i just wore a towel and tucked myself into a corner to change. i could always just change in the bathroom. privacy didn't really exist for any of us. i wasn't allowed to decorate so it wasn't really my room anyway. i didn't have a lot of things growing up; so it's not like i minded having a semi-public space. my siblings left me alone if i needed them to. what's the big deal anyway.

this is accidentally what emotional vampires incorrectly label as a "trauma dump". this is accidentally how you learn that my house was actually unsafe. i don't even consider this a problem, because everything else was so much worse, in a way. i didn't know it was supposed to be different. at the time, i didn't know what privacy was. i just lied about most stuff and got good at hiding in public. i haven't ever lied about this because i didn't know it was supposed to be different. i am 31.

you looked pale and ready to throw up. you had a right to a door for your room. you were a kid. someone should have helped you.

i was busy examining the sole of my foot. the scar really does look like the moon.

actually the fact that odysseus knew he'd be gone for 20 years makes the gears in my brain turn. You kiss your son goodbye knowing you will miss every milestone of his. He will be a grown man and will not remember you. You will be a father only by title. Your wife will lay alone in your wedding bed, she will wake and see the side you've slept on is empty. You won't hold each other for a long, long time. Your parents may not even be there to welcome you back. You know you will return, but the war stretches on and on. Your comrades fall. Your ships are on fire. Your best warriors are nothing but ashes in an urn. But it's eventually over, you can go home. But still, there's more time left. First it's a storm. It's winding up in strange lands. It's hunger. It's temptation. Your men grow weary. You have twelve ships and then you have one and then it's only you on a single timber. You know you will return, but everything has gone so horribly wrong that you can't help but wonder if the fates fooled you. Everyone you know is either dead or are living again. You are the only one stuck in between. Neither dead or alive. You sit on a beach staring out to the sea from the moments the birds sing til the sun dips over the horizon. Every day is the same - you sit on the stones and weep, you trek the shores, during the night you're in her bed. Your skin is cracked and sunburnt, your beard long and tangled, your hair etched with more and more silver hairs. Your eyes are dull, sunken. Your bones ache when you walk, your breath is shorter. The sun rises and sets. The waves wash away your footprints. You are growing old but the island is the same. You are left behind. Your home will change and you won't change with it. In fact, everyone will change, but you will not recognize what's different. Some of the lines under your eyes will be the hauntings of war, while your wife's will be from the sleepless nights of buying you time. You flinch when you see each other. You expected to see someone else, and she expected to see no one at all. You could once hold your boy in your arms, but now it feels like he's the one holding you. The trees in your orchard have grown taller. Some of the houses in your kingdom are empty. The children that sat on your knees now have their own children on their own knees - or they lie dead, by your own hand. Who are you? Who is your son, your wife? You will get to know each other, you will change together eventually. But there will still be something off, like a brick not fitting quite right in the foundation. Off like a living man among the dead, someone who wasn't fated to die, but was supposed to die a long time ago. A dead man among the living. You will not belong, even though you are the father of your son, the husband of your wife, the son of your father, the king of your land. There will always be something missing, something aching.

And you are willing to let it all happen when you lift your baby son from the field, away from the plow.

the church tower of her throat, and shaking hands. the silk cusp of her neck; the sanctity of between-spaces. the liminal blood; the rumble before speech. a throat is poetry. a throat is a midnight. a throat is under a thumb, under a palm, swallowing hard.

and how she is not yours. this is just how you stave off the winter. you watch her tilt her head back, singing, and force your body into silence. you are a good person, and would never wound your future by wanting what you cannot have. you school yourself: and just where would her claws go? only into your heart; that open tomb you keep so wide, ajar.

but when bowing your head for prayer, how close you come to saying the name stored under your tongue. clipped into a cinnamon packet, you staunch the flood of her. the art of self-denial. you practice being better. you will be good like your mother taught you, a bird in the hand, a perfect child, sleek and elegant and undesiring. you are never going to be too-much, you will shovel feathers down your mouth until your naked skin is perfectly raw. you are going to behave and never swim in the image of her soft sighing. you are going to sit on your knees and drink the water and never be so angry that you come up spitting from the mud.

to want something is to be destroyed by it, after all. and you have seen how she moves and the way the light glints in her eyes. you have studied your hollow bones and found all the ways she would enter you - salt, fire, straight-and-through to your core.

when you lean yourself back and listen to her footsteps on the morning grass: you know she is the fire and you are the coal. this is the girl that will close her teeth gently around you - and take you, entirely, body and soul.

From the US but i spell grey with an e because e just feels like a much greyer letter than a

“i. it’s the morning after, and in the elevator, you almost tell a stranger the whole thing. ii. her eyes turn colors in the sunlight and leave inksplot thumbprints somewhere inside your solar plexus. iii. mostly, you wrote poetry about meeting somebody like her, about what she would taste like, how her hands would feel against your face, how her hips would rock and how that little pink mouth would let out a little pink moan that would linger in the air like a perfume. iv. sometimes, you wrote poetry about death. v. sometimes, you wrote poetry about meeting death, about what he would taste like, how his fingers would feel against his face, how your mother never cared anyway, how boys like you with their red raw mouths never let the sadness out but rather champ it in a silver bit in the rusty back of your throat. vi. in summer thirst, your words dry up around her. you have never been able to hold her. you want to ask her about the universe, about the new pictures of pluto, about her family, about whether she prefers coffee or tea. you want to spill out your river secrets into her sea. vii. her eyes, man. her eyes, and how they glow. her eyes, man, and how you’ll never get this trainwreck body to come up close. viii. last night, after four shots, and with shaking hands, you finally convinced yourself to unpeel flowerpetal limbs from the far wall and walk over and confess it all ix. last night, before you got far, she kissed someone better than you, who writes poems about roses and stardust and ribcages and veins and reads Bukowski on saturdays. last night, you walked away. x. it’s the morning after, and in the elevator, you almost tell a stranger everything. you watch your reflection in the doors as they open. you tear in two and bite down and say nothing.”

— boy howdy that hurt // r.i.d

At 18, everyone receive a superpower. Your childhood friend got a power-absorption, your best friends got time control, and they quickly rise into top 100 most powerful superheroes. You got a mediocre superpower, but somehow got into the top 10. Today they visit you asking how you did it.

"What would you wear when it's cold and you're indoors?"

"You."

"Me?"

"I would wear you on and around me."

what does this even mean