I Have To Have Faith In Myself. I Must Have Something Absurd And Irrational To Cling To. Stupid And Silly,

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.

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...

—;

So there's this whine and soft pitch of a dissociative type. The persistent incapabilities to secure, the nature of the soul, are everywhere.

Cosmic encounters between various realms. Destruction of what isn't and what will be inexplicably. The happy results of traveling blindly, without knowing anything, yet possessing something.

This poetry is rambling, disorganized, and vibrant.

Writing repeatedly to stir the soul. This is poetry, gloomy reflections, monotonous writing, and a lasting smile.

Der richtige Weg. Oder das Vorfahrtsrecht, um aus jedem Fehler etwas Besonderes zu machen.

“She lived in her imagination and dreams. She liked only what was most elegant, and if she couldn’t have the best she would do without the second best, because second best meant nothing to her.”

— Theodor Fontane, Effi Briest (1895)

For a season, a reason, unpleasing, and ever so lesion. Rather write it down than act it out.

10/2—

I am beyond myself in these moments of what is and what isn't.

No longer mindful of how I come across to others.

I need to avoid repeating my sorrows. As a result, carry the haunted pain with you forever.

My eyes hurt, and my ribs hurt. Heart filled with sorrow, but I'm still left alone by my own thoughts.

How is that even doable? Have I turned into a was? Is my new identity just a reimagining and a pale version of who I once was?

Cannot reproduce these feelings.

𝐈𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧—

Lonely thoughts of yesterday— will come back to haunt you. Memories of the future, will creep in. Isolation, desolation —captivation. These shall be of things that you can be proud of. You may not be alone, but you are still alone.

And where does the soul reside? Where do you think it lives? What kind of environment do you think it thrives in? Would you say it thrives in solitude? Or perhaps when we're abandoned? That doesn’t sound like a very satisfying answer. But what about when we're completely isolated? We've become so lonely. We've become so disconnected from ourselves. Do we need this much silence? We lose sight of the beauty around us— the beauty in us. And what happens when there isn't enough of ourselves around to remind us? When there aren't any voices left to tell us otherwise?

In solitude; alone, then you may feel like your loneliness is overwhelming. Or does it us the strength to face loneliness and still be happy? To exist is hard. You need energy, a soul—find it, in isolation.

Quote by Vivian Greene

sticky notes