Gently I Tuck Another Idea To Rest In The Mausoleum - An Archived Document, Dead.

the trees might be changing… but what about you?

Vintage wlw will forever own my heart. We have been here for ages, and we won’t leave.

listen, the silhouette of a person is more human than AI will ever be. can you hear me? you are a body, the soul is nothing without the body, there is no consciousness without time and space, and in the computer exists neither. is this thing on?

Maybe we are not at any center of the universe but at the very bottom of it, looking up.

Praying for autumn, as we all do, we ask for mundane to hibernate a pounding heart at last . At last .

so. bad news. we have to keep going tomorrow. good news is that I’ll keep going with you

all of the sudden you’re twenty-nine, standing on the sidewalk barefoot before bed, and the crickets sound just like they did when you were seventeen, sleepless with the windows open. when you remember sadness ran through your body like a fever. nights you were so familiar with the dark—the kind you watched break into daylight around 5, and the kind of restless sinking that never quieted. you remember thinking long and hard through those unceasing nights, in the hidden journals written in your young handwriting, that you’d never live past 18. whether a goal or a prophecy, you weren’t sure, but something felt definite that this grief would be the thing to pull you under, if only hoping a small peace would follow.

the sidewalk is rough, but still warm under your feet. it’s been so long since you’ve thought about this; somehow both twelve years and a lifetime ago. the dog finishes sniffing around the trees and bounds back to you, a happy familiarity once he catches your eye. you’ll both go upstairs to the room you love and fall asleep, in the house you love and share with your best friend. tomorrow, you’ll spend the day laughing, fingers intertwined with your partner, in a loving relationship you’d have never imagined possible.

twelve years after. how easily you saw it over, and what friendships, trips and cross-country moves, published books, new talents, heartaches and bad hair cuts, gardens, and long indulgent breakfasts you’ve accomplished since. you forgot there was a time you couldn’t see yourself alive past eighteen. now, you can’t picture ever wanting to leave this.

Finding my feet

In a land where shadows softly creep, 

Where unknown paths and secrets sleep, 

I found myself, a stranger's face, 

In this new, uncharted place.

The streets were whispers, tales untold, 

With every step, my heart grew bold. 

Though fear did knock, I stood my ground, 

In this strange place, my feet were found.

The skies were foreign, stars anew, 

Yet in their light, my courage grew. 

With every dawn, a chance to see, 

The beauty in this mystery.

Through winding roads and hidden lanes, 

I danced in sun and welcomed rains. 

For in this place, so wild and free, 

I found the strength to just be me.

The city breathed, a living art, 

Its pulse became my beating heart. 

Mountains rose like ancient kings, 

Whispering tales of timeless things.

Rivers flowed like veins of gold, 

Through valleys deep and stories old. 

The wind, a voice both soft and strong, 

Sang to me a foreign song.

In markets bright with colours rare, 

I found new dreams within the air. 

Each face, a book with pages turned, 

In every gaze, a lesson learned.

The night, a velvet cloak of stars, 

Guided me through near and far. 

In this place, both strange and grand, 

I found my feet, I made my stand.

Surviving storms with steadfast grace, 

I carved my path, I found my place. 

In every challenge, strength did grow, 

In every trial, a chance to show.

Living fully, heart and soul, 

Embracing life, becoming whole. 

With every breath, a song to sing, 

In every moment, blossoming.

Thriving in this newfound land, 

With open heart and outstretched hand. 

In this place, both wild and free, 

I found my home, I found me.

I used to dream of death

or blazing, blistering pain.

A mark of martyrdom above my

twisted, tortured brain.

But now I sigh and dream of life

and care for all my wounds

No need to be a martyr

I don't need no cocoon

Me: You know how when you were a kid and you’d wish that you’d get sick or injured in a way that would justify why you didn’t live up to your potential?

Everybody, apparently: No?

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