September 2011
50 posts
I’m planning on writing/recording a spoken word today. Maybe I’ll also wash some dishes, tidy up the room, get some preparation for my job out of the way, but I need to record this or even just write this down. We’ll see.
“I am lonely, yet not everybody will do. I don’t know why, some people fill the...”
– Anaïs Nin (via human-voices)
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The Writing Process.
I wrote a fairly lengthy poem, and I only found the last line promising. As painful as it was, I highlighted all of the lines before that last phrase and clicked Delete. That became my first line, and it opened up into an entirely new poem. A poem I was actually comfortable writing. Writing is learning to tear apart your ideas, your art, your hard work in order to allow something better to emerge....
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sometimes music will hold you still. it will hold you as quiet and as still at that vase collecting dust on your windowsill, it will hold you unmoving and without noise no matter your location, velocity, noisy and shouting environment. it will hum in your ear, it will make the surrounding noises important parts of the instruments, the vocals, it will seep into vision and into feeling. every noise...
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abstruseness:
To me, the saddest thing a person can say is “It’s okay because I’m used to it.”
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emotionally detaching from everything. drifting off into my biology homework, then into german, then into sociology. but never into the ache, the hollow part of my chest, the part of myself that should be addressed, but for now will be ignored. this is what i need, to feel nothing instead of feeling everything, everything horrible and complex and endless, all at once.
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Troy Davis vs. Aborton
illbewaitingforyoubaabbyy:
How is it that one death, as wrongful as it was, can cause such a hooplah. Which no doubt will be over as quickly as it started…. Yet everyday babies are aborted and we are silent? There it’s a whole generation dying…. And the community is doing nothing…
Because Troy Davis was an innocent man, or at least had a lot of evidence supporting his case, whereas women have...
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Fuck Yeah, Tattoos!: I hate dream catcher tattoos →
fuckyeahtattoos:
I hate them so much that I rarely publish any of them, and I delete some I see approved by the other mods. I do the same with tattoos of women and skulls in headdresses. I’ve ranted about all this before, but I’ve never really calmly explained it, so I’m going to try to today.
I find it…
This post is perfect. I agree with it entirely, and I have always had a similar...
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frustration and the heaviness of self-deprecation, stupidity and anger expressed in the static face, the milk sipped from the coffee mug, the destroyed cookies, the lips held taught. thursday and grey, weather like late november in georgia, like the day i was recovering from surgery, pain medication and knitting scarves, i left my room to go somewhere i had never been. the bonfire, the monster of...
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bloom
it starts with the oh no of
a simple mistake; the sigh of
the chipped fingernail, misspelled
word, a dirty room; the grimace
of lost time, an unwritten paper,
a forgotten date; the meltdown
of incapability and jealousy
and self-hesitation—
and it’s never solved: the mess
becomes larger, the broken nail,
the seperation instead of separation,
the towering clothes, the hours
...
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WatchWhenever I watch this video I die.
I miss Omar. And August.
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WatchFAVORITE MOVIE OF ALL TIME
Anonymous asked: Humor is one of the best possible/ healthiest defense mechanisms. People use to deal with stressful, serious situations, similar to self-mutilators. I'm not saying that self-harming or eating disorders are funny because of course they're not-- but understand that these people that are making jokes or cracking smiles possibly undergo self-harming behaviors themselves or know someone close...
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I will never find a joke concerning self-harming or eating disorders funny. Ever. I don’t care if it is put in the lightest manner, if it has a touch of sarcasm or a I’m-just-kidding smile, if it’s not meant to be serious. I do not care. It is not funny. You never know who is near you, and you never know how many people are reminded of their own personal problems or bad...
fleethescene55 asked: How was your day today?
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I’ve had so many mental breakdowns and I kind of want to further break down into tears, but I also want to be strong, pick myself up and carry my emotions into sleep. Sleep it off, wake up and hope I’ll be better. I don’t know what’s been wrong. Sadness kicking in. Distance kicking in. Stress kicking in. I don’t want to be whiny, I don’t want to be a collection...
nomcheta asked: I want to have a day where we can just sit somewhere quiet & talk about the most random things.
It’s very frustrating to go from being inspired and feeling like I could write five thousand novels to staring at my journal with a blank mind and hollow eyes.
I’m running out of things to say.
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Listen
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I feel strange. Clammy hands. Hint of nausea at the back of my throat. Tightened heart, restricted lungs. Every bone feels out of place. Heavy tongue. Maybe this is exhaustion, maybe this is paranoia. Foreboding, anxiety, uncertainty. Maybe something deeper, something I cannot tell you of. A secret feeling locked away to only surface when I do not need it most. Maybe something simple, something...
“As a Muslim, I’m sick of people asking me how I feel about 9/11. What do you...”
– Aman Ali (via faineemae)
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Today
I had my first discussion for my Creative Writing class, and…I am SO EXCITED. And happy. It feels like the first time in forever where I don’t feel inhibited by anxiety, I don’t feel uninspired, I don’t feel lost. The first time where I can feel poetry, prose, words, language come back into me. I actually want to write down everything. Poems, stories, essays, whatever....
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Lately I have struggled to find the words to construct a poem concerning recent events and emotions. Maybe it is due to my exhaustion (this is probably accurate) or stress, but it can be…frustrating. I want to document my life how I used to. To write about life in ambiguity, in words neither bland nor ordinary, to express love and happiness and sadness in metaphors and similes. But...
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First day of classes, and it feels like someone is kicking me in the stomach.
Well. Let’s do this.
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For the first time in forever, I think I am going to relax in bed and read a book. No walking around, no talking to other people, no worrying. Just finishing Love in the Time of Cholera. College has been chaotic, and classes haven’t even started. Only here have the lines between enjoyment and discomfort blurred. I find myself laughing or smiling, but sometimes the emptiness is louder than my...
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I do not feel like myself.
I feel out of place when I am with people.
I go back and forth between security and discomfort.
I do not feel real.
At all.
