Promise me you'll never delete your blog. Even if you get tired of Tumblr eventually, save the blog. Get out all your personal posts and compile them into a book or something. Your writing is so raw, and real, and poetic, and beautiful. I get this feeling of ecstasy when I read what you write. Every word just feels so carefully chosen, so packed with emotion.
:) Thank you, doll. Totally just made my night. I’m never sure if it’s poetic and beautiful, or just dramatic and petty. But, I guess if it’s REALLY what I am feeling, how can it be petty?
I’ve been thinking about compiling my things… you think people would actually care enough to read?
“When I look at my life and its secret colors, I feel like bursting into tears. Like that sky. It’s rain and sun both, noon and midnight. You know, Zagreus, I think of the lips I’ve kissed, and of the wretched child I was, and of the madness of life and the ambition that sometimes carries me away. I’m all those things at once. I’m sure there are times when you wouldn’t even recognize me. Extreme in misery, excessive in happiness—I can’t say it.”—Albert Camus - A Happy Death (via eckleburgs-eyes)
I don’t know who I’ve become anymore. Loving the way vodka hits the back of my throat and the way a stranger’s tongue feels inside my cheek—how my back feels ice cold against your car outside my apartment. Loving to hate the way my clothes smell the morning after—like hip-hop, sweat, and cigarettes.
This is who I am now, after all of you. And I know myself enough to know that the act will get old.
I seem to get too easily distracted by fake flowers and liquefied candles on my living room floor. There’s so many things that need to be said aloud, but hurt chokes down the words into my mouth. I hope you know CPR cause I’m not sure either of us will make it out alive this time.
You know what really bothers me? My deeply ingrained and skewed outlook on sensuality and sex. After being raised in a strict Christian community and spent my college party years at a dry Christian college, I have finally been able to free my mind and spirit—but not my body. And it pisses me off. It affects every relationship. People either think I’m too prude, too innocent, or too immature for being a virgin. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy I’m a virgin. And the only reason that I am one is that I haven’t loved someone enough to give that part away.
Or is that really the case? Maybe it’s that somewhere deep inside of me I’m still afraid of condemnation. I still act like it is weaved into the stitchings of my pillow, taking in the wide range of sinful acts.
As I sit here in this lonely office at 2:11am on a Monday night, I find it quite difficult to hold back my tears. Alone in a hotel full of people, sleeping, breathing, living. And I’m sitting here alone wondering how I ended up at this computer, at this time of night—at this time in my life. Yet this is everything that I have convinced myself that I’ve always wanted.
But without a good soul to share these success stories with, I sure as hell wish it would all just fall apart.
“I found a white piece of paper
with your name on it
your old phone number written in the dark
loop of your handwriting.
I was standing outside a restaurant
watching this one cloud
float by like foam on a pint of beer
and thinking about how good
you’ve become at not being here anymore, how you
like a storm across the sky of everything.”—Matthew Dickman, opening lines to “Cloud”, with thanks to apoetreflects (via growing-orbits)