I Promised I'd Start Journaling Next Year, This Year I Mean, That I'd Fight The Urge To Cut My Hair,

There is so much I could possibly do, what a terrible tragedy I am not immortal. What a beseechingly mortal remark, but I don’t suppose I would like to live forever, just enough.

just the feeling of ink stains on your fingers.

How pitiful it must be to be god don’t you think? A ray of sunshine or a dirtied tile of hope? What is more utterly dehumanizing than being kept alive through desires? Doesn’t that make god a woman? Your lovely creatures, whom you created to love, when in reality they are but your hopes, not you theirs, what else will keep you immortal? No, I believe you were human once, and I believe immortality is the greatest curse, because this is what you end up as. A concept that cannot touch, an entity that cannot feel, the saint who cannot learn, a barren figment of what it is to be without curiosity. Wouldn’t you like to be free from it? But then again, if you’re cursed with knowing what is left for us after death, what is left for you?

(hi) (...)

i finished watching our conversation topic from a couple of months ago. the entire time, you were like a spider traipsing along my thoughts, quietly marveling at the silks you laid, carefully tucking in the corners of the bedspread I never learnt to spread. could you tell me once more, that I don't need to be right all the time? I think my compass is way wire, you haven't been singing for quite some time. my wrist still burns from when you dragged me to wonderland, the quickest film drawn out in painful hours only inside my head. We’ve been here before, the tunnel that won't end is yours, can you blame me for being afraid of heights or futures i can't quite graph on my hand? Won’t you let me scribble over your blue hands one last time? I won’t do it in permanent marker I swear, this last time.

hold on babes, lemme just put on my rose-tinted glasses to excuse all that you do or say

Hope’s a terrific tragedy, oh she’s brilliant but what a lazy bee. She's got bloodied knees and dirt on her white lace, she strums her guitar with a common finesse, her bare feet have known many lies, her hands remain scuffed from weaving said lies. Such pretty and poised lips, such a tragedy they only speak your repetitive prophecy, as she sings you to your sweet imminent death, comfortably. Lay your head on her lap won’t you? Her knuckles might gain the color they lost a lifetime ago. you'll find her in bar fights, in the shimmering glitter of casinos. she kisses you before the most important day of your life, so steady, so warm and now as you lie awake, roughly carving out the edges of a hurried plan B, think darling, wasn't it just a casual fling?

being smart is literally my only validation. nothing if not smart.

what is it we find so dark and murky in the universe that we can't find in our silly synapses?

I want to be fluent in french so bad.

turns out mixing narcissism with deep rooted insecurity was a spell for disaster.