way to die
wisestsortofeverythingimaginable (via wisestsortofeverythingimaginable)
i’m not sure if i’m going to start posting regularly on my writing tumblr again, but eh…
when you get the urge to poop 5 min after you’ve left the house
dating tip: don’t
we lost a good one today.
RIP Gabriel Garcia Marquez
it’s early. it’s late.
maybe i will do a throwback thursday thing every week. i don’t know, it sounds like a good idea right now, but it’s 6am and i haven’t been sleeping much lately. i don’t understand how these nights seem to pass so quickly. there is always so much to do, watch, listen to, write. i’m glad i can say i’m never bored in my mind, but it can be one hell of a crazy ride. earlier today i sobbed listening to one song on repeat for at least half an hour, maybe an hour or so, i have no idea, but it left me so drained. weak, smoking cigarette after cigarette, drinking tea after coffee after tea. and i returned to the other sad music i’ve been listening to for days. i am drained. memories of simpler times floated into my thoughts. lately i’ve been trying to find interest in one of my cameras that i’ve never used much, and missing the camera that was stolen from me a few years ago. and wishing i had film for the cameras i do have still. and wishing that my other camera(s?) were here and not so far away in california. always wishing wishing, for things to be different. wishing time would rewind and the past could unfold differently. i have made many mistakes in my life, i have been very foolish, i have been severely hurt a number of times. looking back, there are some things i wouldn’t change. i’ve been alive for almost 24 years and i’m still learning. still growing. my days alone are pleasant with a sweet sense of solitude, but most of my efforts with people, most of my attempted interactions seem to fail. there is a lot i don’t understand about people, and there is a lot they don’t understand about me. each day i try. but each day it seems distance is the answer. there has been too much noise in my life, too much awkwardness, too much misunderstanding. i am drained. i can write poems and letters, but i can’t seem to do much else. i can be disappointment. i can be annoyance. i can be ugly. i can be completely unaware of reality. i can be too much, or not enough. i don’t think i can be loved.
i can write forever, but who will read it?