Tag Archives: life

pseudonym [8]

am i the letdown that shook the foundation of their worries?

never did it to myself, but it seems i only ever did it to please

distichs and dead ends weren’t enough to keep me occupied

you left me spent, the choice i made just leads to a shortsight

.

callous, beguiling, simpleminded, though blindly overdramatic

indelible yet impossible, a performative living that feels emetic

zipped-up lips and narcolepsy hide a contraband of nightmares

embarking past columned spines, still seeking hope in nowhere

kept only by the promises disgraced—perhaps it was never really fair.

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vanilla iced coffee (for archer.)

haze of rosy dusk

a quick afternoon nap

dreams about cake

a yawning drowsy cat

.

deeper lilac sprawling

to flood the sky with stars

sketch in colour pencil

now to finish and restart.

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Macrocosmic Defiance

Heaven knows that I’m born too late
For these ghosts that I chase
With these dreams, I inflate
Painted skies in my brain
Every day, I’m Carl Sagan in space
To escape this old world

~*~

Lift me up to where the sun hits my eyes just right

Ascending the ardent blurriness of reality itself—

.

Hushed diatribes alongside dug molehills of promises,

Reaching the peak of Everest itself, our still momentum;

The gravity of the situation feels as heavy as lost comets

On the ground, daydreamers with their heads crushed

By nimbus clouds, the senseless thunder that lingered

And threatened to take a strangle at wispy-thin necks

.

Caught in a modern guillotine, but who pulled the twisted rope?

.

So hold my hands and twist my wrists nearly backwards

We shall let the gallows humour simply speak for itself again

And carry every fleeting memory to where it aches—where it matters.

~*~

And when I fall to rise
With stardust in my eyes
In the backbone of night
I’m combustible
Dust in the fire when I can’t sleep
Awake, I’m too tired…

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a cold slice of toast (with pb&j)

Hullo. It’s about 1 AM as I drink my room-temperature coffee and jot this down on my notes app, and I’m in that usual Schrödinger’s midnight state of being simultaneously tired and hyperactive (while also procrastinating on another ugly painting. again.), so it’s due time for a bit of a lengthy reprised overpersonal contemplation once more. Heed this warning and turn away now if you don’t want to get bored with all my bullshit once more, nonexistent reader.

So. 2019. And another decade come and gone. 10 year-old me was still innocently bumbling around with their elementary best friends without much ado of a care in the planet, but then high school happened and college happened (barely but yea yk) and shit went down hard when reality put a .44 Magnum to my head and forcefully led me to the kerb to kick my teeth in; and here we are now, bordering on the verge of adulthood and ready to grow out another set of molars for merciless reality to painfully crush it all under its heel once more, just so it could watch me bleed out. Fun times. Reality is a filthy mob boss and y’all know it. But hey now, let’s not talk about that. Because if I spent my time whining about the past ten years of my life (and trust me, there’s a lot to complain about), this post will probably never cease and it’s already fucking long enough as it is. Shut the hell up @ me.

I digress. Let’s just have a little chit-chat about 2019, shall we? It feels like that past year was somewhat more of a year of unexpected discovery for me, I think. In the sense that I finally got to do some of the things I’ve only been desperately raring to accomplish for the past eight years or so. Taking the time off to focus my energies on what I actually enjoy doing, which was honestly a breath of fresh air. I’ve only spent two semesters in college, and it felt to me like every single day I was there alone and haplessly lost, I mostly loathed it with a burning passion (friendly reminder kids: stupid and lazy and antisocial put together does not make for a good academic career, take this from personal experience). And this sounds pretentiously cheesy to the point of stomach ulcer cliché, but I think maybe I’ve also grown a little more, even if just a bit more, this year??? At learning new things. Getting better at them. Wanting to get better at them more. When I read back on the previous new year’s journal entry that I wrote, I feel pleasantly surprised at how much of it I’ve actually accomplished and then some—well, maybe sans a few things here and there, but not much big losses to me. It’s not like I even held myself to it in any way. On the contrary, I was already classically jaded and hopeless from the get-go, as the final lines blatantly suggest. But things just happen if they do and if I let them, I suppose. And if they always happen like this, then I can’t really say that I mind it at all.

But just like any other year, this one wasn’t without its downs. And when I say I hit rock bottom, I mean that I hit it so hard that I got charged for several counts of battery and assault, no bail. E.g. the whole disappointing failed college fiasco that gave my entire family a relentless migraine and left me very literally nearly dead on my dorm room floor. The obnoxious dramatic three-way fallout with someone who I once used to respect a lot but just had to go and fuck everything up to an unfixable extent. The uncontrollable, exhausting, emotional torture that my stupid arse accidentally fell victim to and am still somehow irrationally putting myself through for almost a year now(!!!). The opportunities I willingly missed out on because I didn’t think I was worth all the trouble. Starting to slowly drift away from people I care about a lot. The incredibly destructive sense of feeling worse and worse about the way I look. The deadbeat, desolated, pointless kind of hellscape living for endless months at an end that probably helped build up an irrefutable case of spite and ingratitude against me. The usual (if not higher) doses of anxiety and depression and mania and crippling insecurities and whatnot that constantly loves dropping anvils down my skull without remorse whenever they feel like it. Growing older in general. The ever-present thought of not really wanting to live anymore. Why fucking bother, eh?

But even if I hate to admit it, there were also good things. Spread thin, far and few in between, but still there somehow. Getting back on this site and writing some more. Making bad drawings and paintings and hoarding art supplies I barely use. Slowly but surely getting back to reading books again. Music; learning it, playing it, listening to it, loving it with all of my heart and soul, bands and band boys and band fics and band blog shenanigans, oh my! Having better friends who made me laugh the misery away and haven’t completely scissor-kicked me out of their life even if my socially-inept self hasn’t been the best to them. Actually getting noticed by the very people I look up to the most (?!??!! this one still horrifies me to this day, it feels like a fucking fever dream to me sndhdk). Hanging with the fam. Getting a dumb but cute pet cat out of the blue. Exercising for some extra happy chemicals and penny-boarding, despite all the bruises and scars I get from it. Getting into trouble after a few impulsive drinks and other random misadventures. Wearing the stupidest outfits, probably looking like an underpaid hoe in the process. Laying on the soft grass alone every night after a long exhausting day and watching the stars flicker beyond the skylines, as Los Baños breathes easy around me. Daydreaming childishly with them. Feeling a little more okay, at the rarest moments of tranquility. Cautiously hopeful. Starting to accept life, despite how insanely out-of-character that sounds. I mean, I am writing this on an off-day, so I’m bound to change my my mind about it in probably…ehhh, I’d say five minutes, allow the spiteful inborn cynic in me to fully kick in and spit in my pathetic face. Ah shit, I just ruined the entire thing, didn’t I. Whoops. Rewind. Where were we? Oh yeah, the whole “starting to accept life” conundrum. That one. Gross. Whatever.

I fully well know that I just can’t stay stuck in this strange limbo, though. The pressure’s boiling to a painfully-scalding degree and it’s high time for me to get back on my atrophied feet now. Take tentative dips into the things that terrify me out of my wit’s end. Stop holding myself back too much and take the plunge, even if I know all too well that I’ll inevitably drown. I have to take risks. I have to do things. I have to be useful. I need to, I guess. It’s a fucking capitalistic travesty, but that’s the unfortunate way things work around here and I can’t do jack about shit. I’ve had my quiet repose, seven gracious months of it, and by god if people have been extensively patient with me. I really don’t want to test their breaking point as they did mine. It’s rather silly now, because despite all the free time I had to think (and mostly overthink) about it, I honestly still don’t know what to do with myself. I have the vaguest idea of it, but I’m at a total loss with how I’m supposed to arrive there. Hell. I just don’t know anymore. But I’m turning 20 soon for fuck’s sake, and if I really want things to change, I know that I just can’t sleep away all my problems forever.

It’s time to wake up, Allen.

(or not at all)

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a cold slice of toast (01.03.19)

It’s 2019.

Maybe I could improve on my writing skills

I know I write shitty poetry a dime a dozen

But my dumb fanfictions and short stories

Are still no good to me—no, no good at all

Or perhaps I could do a little better with chord

Changes and strumming and barre chords

On my strawberry-red guitar and ukulele

And buy a violin I’ll probably never use just

To get a laugh out of my poor bleeding ears

Or I could make a hundred more watercolour

Paintings and spend a million quid on buying

Art materials I don’t even know how to use

Just to make a mess out of my dorm room desk

And I didn’t do so well on my first semester

But perhaps it will be better the next time around

In the meantime, I could tire myself out and travel

I could improve my bad ollies, try out new hobbies

Finally get a kickflip in, paint my hair to a rainbow

Stop ignoring my friends like I don’t give a damn

And stop being frustrated with the way I am—

Or I could spend an entire year coming up

With better ways to say “fuck it all, who cares anyway?”

…I think I like that last one a lot.

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Impossible Year: Haze

The eventide stars, Spencer Smith decided, were more beautiful when their iridescent light coalesced softly against the glimmering snowfall.

Holding a freshly-bought cup of coffee to warm his hands, he wrapped the scarf around his pallid face a bit tighter, his cheeks already a pleasant shade of pastel red from the cold. Finding a nearby park bench to rest on, he placed his bag on it and gingerly sat down to stretch his weary legs.

It had been a long day.

The dim sodium lights above his head overhead flickered once, twice, before completely blazing bright, gradiating his shadow farther and making the darkness seem a little less lonelier than it was.

Lonely little life…

Intricate whorls of vapour escaped from his mouth in a lost sigh. He gazed thoughtfully into his untouched drink, languid mind turning to reminiscing as it replayed old memories like damaged black and white film reels, visions rolling through his half-closed eyes like a fast fading dream.

He thought about his best friend, the clever idiot. Spencer hadn’t seen him in…years? Had it been years? Most likely. He already stopped counting, and he was pretty sure they had done the same, as well. They’ve all been separated for a while and doing their own things now, after all. That was just a part of growing up.

But suddenly remembering those old moments of madness and melancholy alike; the dumb interviews spent joshing each other around and the absurd-looking costumes they put together with thrifted clothes and dollar store supplies, the way they constantly joked around together and made crazy music that left a lasting legacy to always be proud of, the hell-high youth that intoxicated them and, for one moment, made everything feel deathless—it all came crashing back to him and made him feel rather blindly exposed. The frigid breeze suddenly started to pick up as it blew past his rusty bones, making made him shiver slightly.

Best friends, huh…

He hugged his jacket a little tighter towards him as he felt a slower chill run past his skin again. This time, he wasn’t quite entirely sure if it was still from the cold weather.

Spencer smiled dolefully, ignoring the quiet pang of ache that made its way under his ribs. He was happy for his old friend, he really was. That man had helped him through so much, carrying him throughout his worst relapses and his painful withdrawals and even the most hopeless moments of his life, god, they’ve been through so much together. But it couldn’t always be a fairy tale ending for all of them. Sometimes clocks simply stop, and cogs simply fall apart, and after everything that’s happened, time couldn’t ever be turned back and everything has to go on. Happily ever after wasn’t ground zero, it was simply another fork in the road.

But it’s alright. That’s just life. And it was fun while it lasted.

Despite himself, he still can’t help but badly miss everyone. He wondered if they also missed him, as well.

Spencer sat by the very corner of that fragile cardboard town for quite a long time, resting beneath the sinking lavender haze of the early winter afterglow as he let frail snowflakes blanket his tired body; waiting for answers he knew will never come to him.

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Beyond The Pale

Pull the trigger tight and watch our distances explode
If Texas is forever, where’s your home sweet home?
If anything should happen to me, I want you to know
I’ve loved you since ever since then…

~*~

Up there, where the sky looks a little less blue and a little more like the love we used to have

That’s where I’ll be headed now darling, that’s where all the stars go to die

Five thousand years and a minute wasn’t enough to make you stay for the night, so I’ve

Set my sights for the southern lights, but won’t you at least say goodbye?

.

The cold in my hands are getting worse with each passing sunset I wasted on your breath

The diurnal dreams and burning cash, the handmade kisses stippling your shirt

Expect me to return before the moon forgets I wasn’t there, and my shadow falls into debt

With the tear stains on your bedroom wall, did you really think it wouldn’t hurt?

.

Like cigarettes and patron saints, I’ll always come back to haunt the corners of your lungs

Like aching sighs and floral lace, your promises falling on another eternity

Like half-opened novels abandoned facedown on the coffee table, like the last calls left unsung

Like the bullet on my throat you placed as you knew you couldn’t leave me

.

Down here, where the ground looks softer, but only before the final crash starts to strike

Where will you be headed now darling, did you ever ask the stars to lie?

Five million years and minute more, and I would have made you stay for the rest of your life

So set your mind, take the northern lights, I won’t be there to say goodbye.

~*~

Don’t dance around me, I know what it means
No communication cannot be received
But I’m such a sucker for the rain…

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black mold

the clock strikes five, and then there was one.

bathroom floor. feels cold. unnaturally perfect. comforting. alone.

fingers pointing to every tile—faded pink against mouldy lavender

grimly counting the grimy walls peddling for some peace of mind

mindless indulgence, please don’t run out, pleaseplease…but it does

148 tiles. not mine. five sleeping bodies outside, blissfully unaware

five dreams i struggle not to rudely wake up with my silent screams

one. one face. hounding the very verge of my panicked wiles

melting me into an incomprehensible mess. maddening, blaming

the perpetrator of the crime. blue. perfect blue. haunting blue

angel blue with cumulous hair, have you ever seen golden clouds

before? sweet and dimpled, stifle back a sour laugh, i’m falling before

i realise that i can’t fly, oh shit oh god, i can’t fucking fly—!

pulled back. 148 tiles. small cube. no sky. hell below. my shivering hands

prayer. tired kind of mantra, no don’t want this anymore, please i

just want to be okay, please i just want it all to stop stop stop stoppp

numb but hurt, reduced to fine shreds on 28 of the 148 dirty tiles

five unconscious bodies, enviously euphorically ignorant, another storm

but not from outside, it’s too chilly for that, my eyes blur as they fog over but

better than sorry little pissbaby tears trickling, i have to face this now anyway

there’s no proper decorum for dismantled fools like me. only life. only life.

light flickers shut. 148 tiles hide beneath the shadows. five bodies toss fitfully. one.

the clock strikes six, and then there were none.

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Cathexis

It’s really nice, to simply throw myself into a pastime I enjoy and completely forget what it’s like to be worryingly unproductive and incompetent, and be someone else somewhere else, even for just a few hours. To do stuff a little more flawlessly without even realising how much I’ve already learned from past experiences, and how much I still have yet to learn. To finally apply everything I’ve been constantly struggling with for a good several weeks and months and years altogether and somehow have it all make sense in the end. Or some semblance of sense, at the very least. Anything counts for something.

That last part especially, it greatly baffles me—how much of it makes fucking sense. When it finally does. Even when it doesn’t. When I’m engrossingly locked and loaded on the various compositions, as I’m fully losing myself in head-spinning analysation and connecting odder theorems together, when I put bits and pieces of the faintest memories and deeper information into something more coherently vivid, and pick apart a familiar, creative medium that I have dearly cherished for years to its very rivets for my own personal means and interpretation, it just feels like everything makes sense to me—and that applies not only to the thing I’m meticulously looking into, mind you.

Fuck the meaning of life. Fuck irrational anxieties and peer pressures and growing up. Fuck the grander scheme of the universe and all that cosmic existential bullshit. That doesn’t matter to me. This does. This matters. I might not, but this thing in front of me and my mind right now, does. And it’s all that ever will, until I inevitably exhaust it. When I do, I’ll save it away for another rainy day and find something else of its kin to indulge in; optimistic afterthoughts fluttering a little higher than piqued daydreams, determined pastel eyes set focused as clever words and neon motions burn incandescently behind it, dizzying exhilaration steadily pulsing through my veins and making my buzzed skin quietly shiver at the very thought of finally being able to explore different labyrinthine alleyways and discover strange new worlds behind closed doors with the skeleton key in my hand—and doing everything all over again and again without ever getting sick of the whole process. On to find better sights, a better place, a better time, perhaps.

This certain ardent feeling, rather specifically inexplicable and a million times more potent than falling in love and vicious depression and shallow, fleeting aftertastes of superficial happiness, I sure do hope to high hell that I never run out of it for as long as I’m breathing (if you may pardon the utter mawkishness of such a statement). Being myself. Being content. Being actually excited to live. Is that what passion is like?

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weltschmerz

the wary thought

of october graves

in autumn sunrise

her name and yours

on an open letter for

the future young, as

old boats unfurl their

paper sails and the

breeze flows north

so often they whisper

.

“oh, i wish you had

never said a word”

their lacklustre ire

lesions seeping into

bandages and coffee

grounds and the very

last time you saw her

alive that day, of the

very last time you ever

felt alive, that fateful day

.

what more is left now?

statues still into monuments

and the gentlest reminder

of a violent decision that

carved another number

into your mausoleum, and

hers—it’s a strange way to

love, to unravel with her skin;

to twist, and to fade, and to

be the breath she always saves.

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