𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑠 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑

You may find me to be the candidate for dos and don'ts. I can unravel with the times and wind up when the sun rises...

Even my own eyes cannot recognize me sometimes... that's okay. I like being mysterious. I beat with old blood. Bad, contaminated, drug-infused blood. But it's still blood...and I still am human.

In fact, the thing that scares me is not what I do, but what I like. I'm your typical punk girl with tattoos and a pouty face. Dark, right? But believe me, I am light. I am an enigma. I am a phase...I am human.

To the imagination, the soul, and the mind that never seems at rest. Oh...wide eyed girl...so pretty.

At the rate I'm going my succession is the least of my worries. I am beyond the clothes, hair, glitters and gold. I'm exhaling any pent up aggression brought on by unnecessary stress. Oh yes, I am. This worn out cliché and ode to ‘starting a new’ because of course a post, stamp, scribble will enhance any of the hard work that comes along with actually doing it. So I write it. Or I go around shouting to myself like the beatnik freak I can be. Almost in a jumbled fashion, no?

Be

Better

Or

Else.

Or else what?

Bouncing off the metaphorical wall with howling into the wind. A nuclear war with myself—if I were a country alone, I'd be nuked by own inner self. Ahh...there we go... there's that playable and loveable skepticism I've found. Humorous no? Yes. Because now I can move past it.

5/5;

Persistent on the insignificant considerations of some time recently. Some time recently what? Some time recently me, some time recently it, some time recently whom? Caught in it. Caught in what? You're not making any sense. Sense. Does that qualify for rational soundness? Or is that a classic problem. Prepare for the leading, halt maturing on the glasses of it being the more awful. Of course life is worse— each day we breathe we pass on a small more. That, ought to illuminate you to be free and live. Hold nothing back, be louder, go father.

When is sufficient... considered as well much? How much do we know about being sufficient? Go farther...be courageous. Cry, be irate, and...take jumps. Life is disintegrating. Broken. And however, it's never been way better. Battered and bruised; but sweetened and lively.

Sea or ocean. Painter: Lionel Walden.

𝐴 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑤𝑒'𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑡 1. 𝑂𝑛𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦, 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑡𝑒—𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑒.

𝑇𝒉𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦...𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠.

...𝐻𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠, 𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑟𝑖𝑔𝒉𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒. 𝑁𝑜𝑡𝒉𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑜...𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦 𝑡𝒉𝑎𝑡 𝑗𝑎𝑧𝑧 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑒. 𝑇𝒉𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝑜𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑙𝑢𝑒𝑠...

To be a rose. To be a rose. To be.

𝙸𝚗 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚅𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚛.

The brightness of the morning sun knows no bounds. It simply increases. We'll follow the wind, which has no discernible direction.

The Viper has no knowledge of importance. These parallels are uncommon, but they are very consistent. It's unlikely that you'll be any of these elements.

The world's rationality is slim by the margins. Count the number of times the sun rises. Count the number of times the wind will strike you in the face. Count how many times the Viper has appeared in your life.

Is that searing still there or has it dissipated into your soul? Do you ever get up when the sun does? Do you know who the Viper is?

Never again. And yet? It'll happen again. Fucked up but true— that's what happens when you let life, get the best of you. Cold hearted, bitter and tear stained, so in the end it happened like I imagined and I hurt myself again. Better off just keeping memories and moving on. Conflicted soul, torn thoughts and often alone. That's what happens when life leads us. Be prepared. Be aware. And...never...

Franz Wright, from God's Silence; "Why Is the Winter Light"

[Text ID: Empty me of the bitterness and disappointment of being nothing but myself]