I forgot what it was like when this blog read more like a diary and everything wasn’t quite so veiled. But then again, the truth is uglier than what most people seem to hand out. There’s that not knowing what is okay to share and what is disgustingly obtrusive, and I think this directly correlates with the pain of never understanding where boundaries exist in relationships. I have this tendency to love everyone, no matter how evil or ill, and I can’t help but seek that which is redeemable in them. But then again, when is it okay to break smiles into a caress? When is it okay to kiss them? And are they going to hold you to blame, if you desire to kiss someone else? Is this entitlement fair? Is this entitlement something that makes sense? And ah, even better, why is it that my favorite little star is someone so far away? I mean, is that healthy? Is that wise? Can I help it? Can I really? Would it ruin everything to get analytical? If you want the real truth though, last night was a bore and I ended up watching dirty videos which led my female parts to bleed white. It was a heavy business of great sorrow, because I had turned mindless, and really didn’t feel loved at all. But then again, that’s the only way I can get off lately. I think it’s because I know, I can’t have what I want. It’s this distant storm that just sort of exists and I let it. And you know, I want the hungry flesh of that, but it’s nothing there for the taking. So I just need to find new ways to get happy. In fact, I’m pretty sure Salinger would associate me with his Franny. An actress that just feels like a phony. A sincere failure all around. Blackened lungs and heart. But yes, see? Do you see how sour that all sounds? —I’ve often desired to be one of those cute french girls with the ability to write about flowers and large moments of epiphany had in bookstores with sunlight oozing in great amounts, but the modesty in my chest is something false, and that’s not my daily truth at all. There’s nothing felt towards silk dresses unless they breathe of a certain history, and I find no solace in the way lipstick looks, unless I’m playing make believe. My flair is for the eccentric. I break rules and like to scream loud. In fact, right now I’m thinking about Robert Crumb and that Carmen Maki album I just listened to and the way Miles Davis makes me feel. But that doesn’t fit the part of “cute and proper” and that doesn’t induct me into sharing stories about tea cups and the way winter has an inclination to draw comfort. I tried being that fraud, but it was dull. But maybe that’s the point, maybe that’s what makes it okay to bleed in this fashion. It’s okay I’m a mess, just so long as I don’t abandon my interests and fall back into a thick vapor. I mean, why play dead, when you’re just something so fantastically real?  Click for high-res image

I forgot what it was like when this blog read more like a diary and everything wasn’t quite so veiled. But then again, the truth is uglier than what most people seem to hand out. There’s that not knowing what is okay to share and what is disgustingly obtrusive, and I think this directly correlates with the pain of never understanding where boundaries exist in relationships. I have this tendency to love everyone, no matter how evil or ill, and I can’t help but seek that which is redeemable in them. But then again, when is it okay to break smiles into a caress? When is it okay to kiss them? And are they going to hold you to blame, if you desire to kiss someone else? Is this entitlement fair? Is this entitlement something that makes sense? And ah, even better, why is it that my favorite little star is someone so far away? I mean, is that healthy? Is that wise? Can I help it? Can I really? Would it ruin everything to get analytical?

If you want the real truth though, last night was a bore and I ended up watching dirty videos which led my female parts to bleed white. It was a heavy business of great sorrow, because I had turned mindless, and really didn’t feel loved at all. But then again, that’s the only way I can get off lately. I think it’s because I know, I can’t have what I want. It’s this distant storm that just sort of exists and I let it. And you know, I want the hungry flesh of that, but it’s nothing there for the taking. So I just need to find new ways to get happy. In fact, I’m pretty sure Salinger would associate me with his Franny. An actress that just feels like a phony. A sincere failure all around. Blackened lungs and heart.

But yes, see? Do you see how sour that all sounds? —I’ve often desired to be one of those cute french girls with the ability to write about flowers and large moments of epiphany had in bookstores with sunlight oozing in great amounts, but the modesty in my chest is something false, and that’s not my daily truth at all. There’s nothing felt towards silk dresses unless they breathe of a certain history, and I find no solace in the way lipstick looks, unless I’m playing make believe. My flair is for the eccentric. I break rules and like to scream loud.

In fact, right now I’m thinking about Robert Crumb and that Carmen Maki album I just listened to and the way Miles Davis makes me feel. But that doesn’t fit the part of “cute and proper” and that doesn’t induct me into sharing stories about tea cups and the way winter has an inclination to draw comfort. I tried being that fraud, but it was dull. But maybe that’s the point, maybe that’s what makes it okay to bleed in this fashion. It’s okay I’m a mess, just so long as I don’t abandon my interests and fall back into a thick vapor. I mean, why play dead, when you’re just something so fantastically real? 

Posted on January 24, 2012 at 11:40am with 11 notes

Post Notes

  1. insomniagirl posted this