The Real World Is No Stranger To Us, Nor Is Yesterday's Hurt Any Deeper. Unlike Yesterday, We Can Look

This. Really, really, really—felt this.

i am always giving, and never receiving. when is it my turn to be special to somebody

Angelina Jolie photographed by Victoria Brynner, 1990

I have to have faith in myself. I must have something absurd and irrational to cling to. Stupid and silly, yet I fully comprehend it. I'm destroying myself with worry about the future. I'm exhausting myself thinking about the past. in the present? Standing here, unsure of myself. Walking while blind... It's almost as if I'm a wind-up toy with a purpose. Would I hear myself if I shouted?

Not the rose petal anymore. Just a leaf. By my own thoughts, I have been crushed and malfunctioning. Suffocated and plagued by oneself. I'm no longer disillusioned, but instead having mental dizziness. In my head stewing. Then halt. Then halt. Yet how? Breathe. Exhale and inhale. The day will be new tomorrow. I've come this far, and I'm confident that I can continue.

Space is like a shelter in many forms. The way that space feels both accessible and far beyond. How elaborate the voyage details are. When Earth has reached its nadir, how hazy the soul remains.

Within many ways, I am a drawback. Just to re-trail, I trail. I forget so I can recall. I think back to position myself in time. When was? Where am I supposed to be? What should I do still?

Space. Stars, dreams, and imaginative creations are the foundation of my life. These are real yet far away. I am the galaxy, yet the burned out stars are the only ones that call me home.

I'm constantly looking for my position on this planet. I'm broken, blind, and ecstatic that I still have a path ahead of me...

Such seldom occurrences—when I'm not really certain of my thinking. Deem it an anomaly to my own senses. Perhaps I'm foregoing ahead of the seasons. Like a used pencil, my intellect is dull. But it keeps going, just like that pencil.

Collectively, I'm almost cognisant thoughts. I'm also blissfully blind at the same time. I'm trying to navigate this unique life sphere. Limitless and tactless, entwined with skepticism, assurance, elation, and deliberation. I am both unaware and aware of everything, everywhere and on all seas.

Whatever might happen, whatever might be, I'll be alright.

where am I? now not bodily. Mentally I need to realize where I am at. How am I still breathing above the tide? I sense like I am suffocating in my very own doubts. My very own doubts are to strangle me into some other realm if i'm not careful.

So where does that depart me now? Itching for ink, itching for a experience of comfort. where's my stash? that's what I need. To open that stash, put on that record, and inhale life through a haze that's not me—however a part of me. Yeah, I have gone back on my phrase and who the fuck cares. I need to know who I am and where the fuck I am.

My future self will shake her head in disappointment. And i'm able to shake it together with her— I want a way out, a way in, a place to belong. an area in which I don't experience as if i'm drowning in myself.

Where does it begin? Every story has its origin. Of course, of course, nothing can not possibly exist without something. Of course! Okay, okay— here we go.

Angelina padded across her kitchen barefoot, eyes sleep filled, mind cloudy and her entire morning demeanor; groggy. Her warm body awoke to a chilling tile floor. The bare peaks of the sun were breaking their way into the kitchen, past the flimsy lace curtains. She kept her head low as if the sun was irritating her. She lived sometimes as if she was a roadie for Janis Joplin, setting up for three days of Woodstock. A far reach? Maybe. Although Angelina never considered herself to be too entertaining, she fought for certain roles, scripts in the entertainment industry. Angelina lived the “rockstar” life, but she never considered herself to be a rockstar. Far from it— but she partied like one. Always had. Everything Angelina wanted in life and everything she did was to access.

If she drank, she did that to free the chaotic terror of thoughts, that plagued her mind. She wasn't a looney bin case or anything; nothing clinical or diagnostic had ever been performed on her. But Angelina knew she was different. She had been in school, in acting classes, in auditions—she was different from her own brother. Hell, they didn't even share the same last name; of course they were different.

Standing with the fridge door open, the lanky brunette eyed her choices of the morning. A cold glass of water and...her head whipped toward the counter where she spotted the fresh bananas in the wooden bowl. Ah, Carolina, her every twice of month made must have gone shopping— a blessing.

That was settled then. Breakfast had been decided, now if only she could make the quick choices like that for the rest of her day. Or life. After pouring her glass of water, snatching a banana she shuffled downstairs to her bedroom. It was her seclusion bedroom.

Where she came to write, read, relax...and occasionally, do her extracurricular excessive activities. While Angelina's writing, attempted script and dialogue— talent was a kept seclusion secret. Her use of “recreational activity” i.e. drug use, was not. Almost everyone in her camp— knew she used drugs. And ‘used’ was a limp and loose term. Angelina had gone days, weeks, months, without using sometimes. Then like an uncharted gravitational pull, mustered up enough voltage energy and would pull her back in. And then, she'd be on the wagon. Tinfoil, spoons, baggies, would appear and disappear from her bag, bedroom, all areas of the places she'd go.

Angelina took a small bite of her banana and smirked to herself. How could she...work, agree to drug test, and yet...be an “addict?” But then again she couldn't really classify herself as an addict. In those almost paralytic, drug psychosis states... she'd vow for it to be the last time. And sometimes she'd mean it! Yeah, going months without even giving smack’ a second thought.

A half finished banana was tossed into the waist bin. Her lips disconnected from her glass of water as small dribbles of water, trickled down her chin. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Angelina shook off the impending heard of bison stampeding thoughts and prepared for the day. GIA was wrapping up, final scene changes, edits, cuts; the whole shebang. A nice hot shower, maybe a little coffee, and she'd be on her way.

An astonishing combination of delectable sweetness and mystifying cacophony. Ear-warming. What is? Why the spring days ahead—that is.

The longer nights, shortened days, sunrises, and sunsets are upon us; they love us. Connotations of sweetness. Looking ahead, anticipating the joys of spring...

We wish to keep, possess, and not wonder any more of what lies ahead. We wish to be enchanted, overcome by delirium when it comes. We wish to have our arms outstretched to catch the peaking days. We wish to close our eyes on the settling nights.

Spring...

Spring...

Spring.

Solitude.

Lara Croft: Tomb Raider Press Conference, 2001