a true poet can grasp the realness of life but i only muse over my intangible depression so here you go
The Bathroom Club
Broken Bells - After The Disco
satan sent u an email and its ur head on a plate ;-)
this is drunk lucy in a dryer
south boston, “southie”
I don’t feel that bursting urge to write anymore. Tears, if any, always come as a surprise to me. My feelings have flatlined.
When I returned home, I couldn’t help but to notice how excruciatingly small everything was. My bed—my tiny bed—is now too small for me. My room spans but a teaspoon. Maybe it’s all very meta or something of that nature. I’ve now outgrown my tiny hometown dollhouse. Everything about me is bigger. Simpler, really.
How is it that those who only touch your world for a moment make you ache the most? I miss that boy from music camp who told me I play beautifully three years ago more than I miss my own father. I miss the waves in slow motion from strangers on the street more than I miss the fact that I don’t play beautifully anymore. I know the palms of my hands all too well. I miss the unknown. Reality is harrowing.
I really try to avoid goodbyes but they always end up hitting me square in the face. And I really hate them because they make me grasp change. I’d rather just pretend. “She said you two cried for a hour. I find that…extremely profound. It’s important to absorb what’s meaningful to you, and to feel it wholly. Because, when you absorb those moments, you’ll never lose them.” It’s even worse to be reminded of a goodbye.
I just don’t feel anything anymore. Things hit me and imbed themselves in my skin but I don’t feel it. It’s more of an ache. A distant numbness. My hurt is equal to my disappointment, a bed of fleas I cannot rid myself of.