Journal

Maybe it will stop raining. Under a rock it will be better unless the rock smooshes me to a sheet. A willow tree: nobody can see a trunk's flaws unless they're inside and nobody will be inside anymore. Nail polish on your wall almost pink next to your bed. Substance? so I am a person, authority. Without blisters on the bottoms of my feet, with my head hung I am not here. Like I am near your knees. "Lightning." "Jynx." But that wasn't said.

Hither Hills

A few days I woke up early and read with my head in the shade, and legs in the morning sun. A breeze, the smell of salt, everything, it was picturesque. I remember looking at the moon for three nights in a row, and wishing I could spread the ocean from the path it lit up and let those waves glow in single file, to the end that I could see, although I didn't want to be able to see an end. Maybe I was just gflkgs, but I was so intent on sitting off to the side and watching the water rise and settle, and hoping the tainted dark water would detach and let the pathway glow alone and brave and forward.

I keep seeing people on sidewalks, or on lines, or anywhere where I could speak to them but it just wouldn't feel right; it'd be an awkward beginning, a fart in church. I don't know, why don't we say hi to people who pass? Or smile, or something. It's pathetic. This past week has been meh. I want to rewind to the beginning of the summer; the school year ties us all down and confines us to ourselves. I wonder what the neighborhood trees think as I pass them by, months of neglect at hand, I am monstrous and self consumed, trying to separate dreams from life and sort this all out into blues, into blacks, into something other than a production starring reality. I'm hating my limbs and the mass that clings to them; I am hating all the motivation I subdue and the ideas, and the passion, and the striving, and everything I've wanted to do to the point where I simply can't. Hamlet, Peter Pan, nothing of my own. "What would I say if I had you on the line?" I was naive, I should have known, and don't bother answering my questions, this is what I'd say, and cake batter is what I'd expect, something sugary and tempting. I forgot how blatantly the street lights shine onto your face when you don't want to be seen, or how clear the edges of a shadow can be. I really wonder how often people wait all day for someone to come home, and end up having nothing to say.