What To Do With All This Love

I know I haven't posted in forever, but that's cause it seems like I have run out of words. I'm still taking a lot of pictures though!! and you can follow my adventures on my instagram. I'll post here again eventually :)

Typical Habits Of A Wandering Ghost

In a way, we became our own ghosts, haunting the memories that we loved, the old places that captured our imaginations when nothing else did.

Slow Honey Lovers

This is a story about the winter I descended into a deep depression and learned that I couldn’t love you without wanting to kill myself. Infatuation and death are not so mutually exclusive. Why else would Romeo have drank the poison? Everything I am. Everything I was. It could all be distilled down to cravings and bad habits. And all I wanted to do was to be closer to you than God.

Kill Your Darlings

I spent last Sunday night staring out the window, watching the eastern sky shift pale and purple against the backdrop of glowing streetlights. Lying there in the deafening silence, paralyzed by the chasm between our still bodies, my own cowardice that brought me here in the first place, I wondered when it all started falling apart at the seams. The butterflies turned into maggots – the illusion dispersed in the early winter chill – the wave of suffocating unreality. 

You are asleep (or faking sleep) and I am watching the rise and fall of your uneven breathing. Sometime between the fleeting touches and speaking glances from last night, something had changed and maybe become irreparably broken. Then, it becomes a simple matter of learning how to deconstruct yourself, so that when you put the parts back together, you are practically unrecognizable. Yesterday I tried to drown myself in the lake. Because I can still feel the burn of your fingertips along the ridge of my hipbone running down to the space behind my knees. Because I cut those pieces out and buried the scars, so I could pretend to feel whole again.

I Want You To Find Me Here

Nuclear Winter

In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. (Alfred Camus) 

We missed the Geminids again this year, back in December when the moon was new and the chill had already begun seeping through the floorboards. Still, we’ve never been so far North where it snows in April, admist bolts of lightening and fleeting rain. I have been reading a lot lately to pass the time, falling in and out of insomnia, phasing into hazy dreams that leave me more exhausted than before. At times it seems as if winter would never end, that spring has forsaken us to rot in this desolate wasteland, and I am wasting along with it, collapsing into myself, scattering into stardust.

March is the end of an era, yet in many ways it might just be the beginning. Not that there is anything wrong with a little metaphorical death, but we have conquered too many mountains and come too far for giving up to even be an option. Everything has changed, nothing has changed. Come morning, despite the laws of physics and the steady decay of radioactive elements, my bones are still my bones (and your heart, still your heart). If there is any true logic in this universe, we’ll find ourselves on that bridge again someday, watching the streetlights blink in and out of focus, waiting for the dizzying rush of blood as the world tilts and rotates. I see the stars my dear, and they are calling me home.

Take Refuge In What You Know

It has been 14.6 days since I last left the apartment. And in the cold February sunlight, I felt the strings gradually being cut inside me. Small things, like, the murmur of voices outside the door or the telephone ringing in the afternoon, have become too much to bear. So I have closed the doors and windows, and cut the telephone cord, drawing the paper-white sheet above my head in a mockery of a shroud. It's like a disappearing act, as if the less matter I have, the easier it will be to breathe and maybe, maybe I can feel my fingertips again and stop this compulsion to grieve.

You asked me once if I enjoyed being sad. I remember laughing before dumping hot tea onto your lap in retaliation. I should have realized it then, but, you never did understand. Has it ever occurred to you that my melancholy is all I have left of these memories? That I keep your letters pressed against my heart like a talisman and collect postcards for you that will never be sent because I cannot stand the thought of you existing outside this plane of consciousness. I do not care for anything in this world the way I care for you. Deeply, and without regret.

Anatomy of Neurosis

The Frog Prince

 December is foggy mornings out on the lake, and sitting aimlessly on the windowsill, watching the clouds pass by. Not much has changed in the past 3 months. The floorboards creak in the afternoon, I am still afraid of ghosts, and some days, it is hard just to leave the house. Everything is quiet and peaceful, and it is enough to drive anyone to pieces.

Andy Warhol, the king of soup. Leftover valentine cakes. Exotic fruits. Ancient Egyptian statues. Ladurée macron dreams.