She fades away
like the edges of a burning polaroid;
twisting and curling
She has no true beginning,
nor a true end.
She is just her,
the nameless girl whose soft voice
teases of naked fantasy
and intimate fiction.
I sought to burn her to memory
But charred her to broken scraps;
adrift in the wind,
into endless day.
I’ve been writing less and less, but only on this blog. After putting as much angst on a blog, I now feel obliged to put only depressed teenage content, but the issue now is that I’m pretty content with my life (that’s TWO different uses of content in one sentence). Who would’ve thought my issue would involve my enjoyment of life? Anyhow, I have mostly begun to focus on my photo blog (cough link is on my homepage cough) as it allows me to combine my two favorite hobbies: photography and sarcastic humor. But fear not, I will continue to write on this blog, I just need to put a little more thought into it. Maybe I will fulfill my lifelong dream of 3 months and start writing stories here.
Also, I hate the url of this blog beyond belief. Though I guess you can’t have everything perfect.
There is a certain air of expectation that hangs above the glinting wing of an aeroplane at sunset. Perhaps it is the finality of a spent day fading into darkness whilst a future still exists to soar above the clouds upon twin wings, far off from memories of hurt and want. Whether I fly into yesterday or tomorrow is irrelevant; it only matters that I am leaving today.
I’ve been wondering about what you tell people, how you tell people. This blog is where I am most open, something that makes sense until you think about it. Why should random strangers online know me better than people I see daily? I tend to gravitate toward strangers. Strangers, contrary to childhood teachings, are safe. Not just any strangers, the kind of strangers who are complete strangers. The faceless stranger with no name. Once I know your name and face, and once I have seen the way your face crinkles when it smiles, it is already too real. It is already a person. People scare me, I have never been able to trust anyone with information in real life. But ask me to text you the nuclear launch codes and I would happily comply. I’ll text a person a little scrap of knowledge, then get embarrassed when they bring it up in real life. For some reason I really cannot open up to friends.
Sometimes, I just want to get drunk and live on a street corner, because then, at least, passersby will look down and say “Poor man.” And perhaps I will feel better, or maybe they just said the truth.
I think that, perhaps, life has gotten to me. I used to believe in love, in life, and in living, but now I find myself in disbelief of myself. I’m a shade, a 2 dimensional shadow of who I could be. Perhaps the world does not fade around me, but I instead fade from the world, a god whose worshippers lie dead beneath rotting stone and whose temples crumble beneath snaking ivy. Such a being is no being at all, for he who needed temples and worship to live was never really alive. Reality has won this round. We are all mice running in circles, except the mouse is intelligent; it just lives. We must make meaning from living, we must find patterns and rules for reality. But I now see it all for what it is. Life is random. We do not spend life attempting to fulfill a greater meaning, we spend life attempting to create a meeting when the true challenge lies in accepting that there is in fact no meaning. The whole of life is the attempt to make sense of the senseless, to make meaning out of the meaningless; it is, in and of itself, the creation of reality from a dream and perhaps most importantly, the creation of a dream from reality.
I started writing a book, but I haven’t been able to see where I left off. The story was never defined, yet it was so clear to me. But now as I try to write, the keys make no sound. I cannot understand where I am in the story. Perhaps the problem is that I am trying to write a story that has not yet been completed.
When you unfollow someone, all their posts disappear from your feed. Don’t know why I expected otherwise, but it makes sense. To move on completely you must burn the present. Old memories can be held onto, but new updates are dangerous. I’m not doing myself any favors by trying to stay friendly, might as well forget she exists and be on my merry way. I understand how a girl from three years ago felt, and I have decided not to text anyone I know in real life. Texting makes it too easy, far too easy, to stab someone in the back rather than in their gut whilst looking into their eyes. I have been murdered once and I have murdered one person. I’ve had enough, I’m done.