I am tucking myself back again. Its like I have a life cycle. There are moments I bloom, unfurling my petals and spreading my roots. I meet all sorts of bees and birds and see the other flowers blooming along side me. But then there is an almost imperceptible shift. My petals start to wither and my leaves start to shrivel. All of a sudden I dont feel so welcome among the forest floor anymore. The sun is too bright, the smell of pollen cloying, the ground too wet. And piece by piece I shrink. I curl into myself, leaves closing over my heart like a giant mouth.

I really be like waking up tired like wtf did I even sleep for.

I pretty good at acting dead that my own family forgot I'm alive

When I reread what I've written, I feel like I'm swallowing my own vomit.

The soul is silent. If it speaks at all, it speaks in dreams. And you, my dear, reek of dreams so much

A chameleon, I shift through a thousand roles, embracing each with fleeting conviction. I am a saint on Sundays, bathed in righteous light, only to weep inconsolably come Monday's dawn.



I have striven to anchor both of my feet on the ground, to shed the shackles of neurosis, to temper the fires of romanticism, to quell the destructive impulses that haunt my soul. But perhaps these are merely disguises, masks worn to conceal the very demons I so desperately seek to exorcise. Perhaps I am doomed to forever dance on the edge of sanity, a beautiful, tragic figure caught in the endless cycle of fabrication

You had this expression on your face, like you weren't quite sure you were supposed to be on Earth.

I be saying drown in my love and lose my ability to form speech the next second

This long journey, the sound of bells growing louder, calming albeit alarming, as if urging me to live. But what is living? Is it the pursuit of destiny, or simply doing what feels right in the moment? There’s always been an firey itch in the brain for someone to call a name, to utter those syllables in order, just the intention would be enough. A quest to be seen. But what would that name mean to anyone? This ringing in the ears what would it signify? The question grows and bears fruit to something similar, words, asking the same thing, dragging force going the same direction, again and again, until numbness shifts into contrition.

Frustration emanates from the spring where kindness is sought, yet it proves to be a shallow endeavor. To be loved isn’t about staying; it’s about remaining a memory, untarnished. Though an abandoned train in the meadows is beautiful, I wish to be remembered for warmth, a scorching deception, warmth that could not be given. Staying timeless in the mind, like the sun.

Don't get me wrong, I love drama. I just ain't the type to participate

Sorry, I left my common sense home. What were you saying again?