Tag Archives: Prose

Rise and shine, sleepyhead

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Good morning, sunshine.

You are a slow sip of icy coffee on a sweltering summer day, sweet and bitter and decadent and satisfying all at the same time. The yawning sun is barely peeking out of the horizon, still playful and forgiving; bathing you in childish glows and warm reverie. Life is nothing more than a bite of honey-dipped pastry and freshly-made ham and cheese sandwich, a shared table with an aged stranger, a silly dream full of friendship and fast times and flirtation—life is nothing more than fleeting polaroid snapshots of blurry smiles and quiet contemplation. Now melt the ice between your teeth, let the chill run down your lungs, and let the wandering words on your pen speak for themselves.

It is only morning, after all, and the universe is still quite hazy. Breathe it in. Make it last.

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Impossible Year: Petrichor

It had been hours since Ryan Ross began staring down the mustard-yellow walls of his living room, and since then he hadn’t stirred from his position but once to take a sip from his mug—only to realise in quiet disdain that his chai tea had already gone cold.

It was drizzling lightly and he was lazily lounging on the couch, wearing an embarrassingly fluffy blue jumper and sweatpants, having a nice warm (well, not so nice and warm now) drink, and hearing nothing but the comforting sounds of rain falling from the gloomy sky and gently kissing the rooftop and windows.

It was the perfect sweater weather, the one Ryan adored and wrote about more than any other season, more than he ever even cared to admit…but now, it just didn’t feel right. He didn’t really know why, exactly, but something felt anxiously off somehow.

Just what is it about today?

On most times like these, he would already be full-on dramatic poet mode, with his intent musings flowing past his relaxed mind and onto his chewed-up pen like…filthy drainpipe water flowing onto the open sewers? Seriously, out of all the beautiful ways to have possibly worded it, that’s the best metaphor he could come up with? Disgusting.

Ryan sighed, running a hand through his messy auburn hair in frustration. The situation was getting more dire by the minute, and nothing else he seemed to try was working.

Mental block is a bitch.

Maybe he was just forcing it too much. Maybe he’d been cooped up inside his suffocating house for too long. Maybe he needed to take a break.

He snorted derisively at the last thought. He definitely needed to take a break.

“George Ryan Ross III, you need to get the hell out of this damning place and pull yourself together!” He proclaimed to himself, his soft voice echoing throughout the empty rooms of his house.

Filled with a new fervour, Ryan resolutely headed to the door, but not before making sure to grab a heavy parka from his closet and a badly-bent umbrella leaning by his shoe rack. As soon as he stepped outside, the scene that greeted Ryan completely took his breath away.

It was a whole lot prettier than he imagined.

Careful not to trample on the newly-blossoming flowers, Ryan giddily spun and traipsed about for a bit before finally standing still in the middle of his front yard. He then breathed in deeply, taking in the fresh scent of lemongrass and rainwater painting the air in that sluggish April afternoon.

The initial rush of wind that blew by was rather strong, rustling the tree branches madly and making him lose his umbrella. The latter was sent careening out of his grasp and ended up tumbling away onto the puddle-soaked street, creating an awful screech as it went along, metal scraping against pavement until the abrasive sound slowly faded away into nothing.

But surprisingly, Ryan found that he didn’t mind it at all. The umbrella’s already old and half-broken, anyway. And the weather never gave a damn about me.

Hey, that kind of sounds like a good line…ladies and gentlemen, we finally have a breakthrough! A voice at the back of Ryan’s head announced victoriously. It was such a silly thought…but suddenly, he didn’t feel so exhausted anymore.

And for the very first time that day, Ryan smiled.

Ryan stayed out in the rain for a rather long time, shivering madly and humming melodies to himself until he was numb from the cold and drenched to the bone. He laughed until he cried, he cried until he laughed; until the tears were indistinguishable from the cloudburst, until the childish laughter was intertwined with the sweet reveries of spring.

And there he stayed, until the rainfall finally ceased and the drowsy sun slowly sank under the scarlet horizon; still cheering and singing along to the march of the clouds.

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Peripheral Vision

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What a stubborn thought; to be loved, to be lost, to be loathed.

My initial mistake was to get myself foolishly caught up in the former instance, without carefully considering the ulterior consequences of my despicably reckless actions. I dived headfirst without peering in to see if there was a tangible ocean beneath me, and cried out in regret when my body got viciously torn apart by the jagged rocks awaiting below.

But, what else could I have done? And what else should I have not? I could spend my entire life painstakingly sifting through the showering grains of the hourglass, attempting to find a diamond until time runs out; or I could simply let the sand fall away to its own accord as I willingly hold out my roughened hands below—hurting, helping, hoping. The unfortunate namesake “human” is deeply threaded through my innocent nerves, shutting out the callous pessimism which only seeks to permanently cease my blood circulation; still withering against the gentler stings of anguish.

Though I have slowly faded out most of my past anamnesis, all of their phantasmic chimeras are still somehow luminously vigilant, almost even barbarous in its unremitting pursuit to frivolously preserve my already-squandered youth. Yet I suppose, no matter…no matter. For now, you are the overgrown wildflower field lulling my tired providence to rest, under fluid stars and unplucked scars and quavering sympathy—the only thankless relapse fully able to keep me awake for multiple infinitudes every twilight’s eve.

What a stubborn thought; to be loathed, to be lost, to be loved by you.

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M a n i f e s t

i will never understand how you leave me like this.

this sorry state of mine, wretchedly piteous. i feel as though all of the pivotal sockets in my body are being violently wrenched away from their joints; every part of me is so stretched out to its very limits that if you were to do so much as to gently touch me, your hand would simply rip right through my gossamer skin.

yet this pain…it’s rather so elegant, so otherworldly, so magnanimously efficacious, that i simply can’t help but agonisingly writhe my way back to it again, despite knowing the inevitable torture that lies ahead. the sight of you. the sound of you. the merest infinitesimal sense of you—so frustratingly palpable that your conjured afterimage begins to bleed into the monochrome universe around me, until i could no longer see anyone nor anything anymore, but you.

you. you. you. you’re clinging onto me like confused kerosene to an open flame, ideas scheming ideations, screaming ideologies, spilling idle love.

you leave me like this, and yet you l e a v e .

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Call me a sweet tropical fruit smoothie, ’cause I wanna put my thick head through a fucking blender (and other neurotic diatribes)


ᴵ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ʳᵘᵇ ᶦᵗ ᶦⁿ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᶠᵘᶜᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᶠᵃᶜᵉ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ
ᴺᵒ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵉʳᵉ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᵃ ᶠʳᶦᵉⁿᵈ ᵗᵒ ᵐᵉ
ᴶᵘˢᵗ ᵃ ᵖᵃʳᵗ ᶦⁿ ᵃˡˡ ᵐʸ ᵐᵒᵛᶦᵉˢ
ˢᵗᵃᵇᵇᶦⁿᵍ ʸᵒᵘ ᵈᵉᵃᵈ ᶦⁿ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸ ˢᶜᵉⁿᵉ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᴵ’ᵐ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵍᵒⁿⁿᵃ ˢᵗᵒᵖ ᵘⁿᵗᶦˡ ʸᵒᵘ
ᴿᵉᵃˡᶦᶻᵉ ʰᵒʷ ʸᵒᵘ ᵐᵃᵈᵉ ᵐᵉ ᶠᵉᵉˡ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᴵ ˢʷᵉᵃʳ ᶦᵗ’ˢ ᵃˡˡ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᶠᵃᵘˡᵗ
ᴬᵗ ˡᵉᵃˢᵗ ᵗʰᵃᵗ’ˢ ʷʰᵃᵗ ᴵ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ·


The very first time I talked about not talking about things, I hypothesised regarding my sheer inability to open up more and stupidly concluded that perhaps it was one of my greatest weaknesses (yeah, disgustingly yucky, I know). But after a couple years, several hundred other pretentious, maundering posts, and far too much obnoxious, exhausting drama with the wrong people later, I’ve come back with a better understanding of my overbearing privacy and to refute my initial statement. Because oh boy, was I ever right and wrong. Right in the sense that I was right to keep most things to myself, and wrong in ever thinking that that was inherently going to be a bad thing for me.

But before anything else, I would like to go on record and say that this is not targeted at anyone or anything specific. It’s just a crude pastiche of all the incredibly-minor annoyances that’s been silently digging into my brain these past few years, thoroughly compiled into another off-the-rails rant that no one really cares about. It’s therapeutic for me because my broke, third-world, lower middle-class arse can’t afford actual therapy, so y’all have to cut me some kind of slack for that, right? Pretty pretty please with a xanax on top? And really, this is just what happens to the degraded brain of someone who hasn’t interacted with anyone (and I do literally mean any other human being, this is not another piss-poor attempt at severe exaggeration) besides their damned, suffering cat for almost a month now. Long story short (but it’s only ironically about to get longer), there is no personal vitriol intended in this for anyone except myself, and getting affected by it is beyond my liability at this point. And please for the love of Zaphod Beeblebrox’s second head, do take everything I write down with half a grain of salt because these are just my personal angry, self-sabotaging, misanthropic opinions and it should never have to apply to everyone else. Alright, moving on.

Here’s the thing, then. Attempting to make connections in *that* extreme personal way, i.e. talking about literally everything to someone no matter how trivial or private the topic, is a very dangerous minefield to tread. And it’s not as if you could even tell if the person on the other side is completely willing to reciprocate it. Most of the time, you’ll come out of it barely alive with your intestines casually hanging out your bloody camos and wanting of a few limbs here and there, and all the exhausting effort you undertook will simply feel unnecessarily pyrrhic. Risking a thousand detonating devices for maybe possibly not really just one or two fake diamond bullets to shoot yourself in the foot with??? Wow, sounds like a fucking steal to me! And believe me when I say I’ve been there far too often than I’m proud to admit, otherwise I’d still be out there, blindly trying to convince myself to get my entire spinal column blown off to high heavens like forbidden enamel popcorn, just one last time for the sweet hell of it. Advice: save yourself and the other man and keep some defunct minefields in your pocket all for yourself, please. And make sure it doesn’t accidentally jostle or fall out and make you another fool’s casualty. Or if all else fails, just chuck it back to their smug sneers and take cover. Effective, and at least you won’t get hurt.

Here’s how the grueling cycle usually goes: slowly open up about deeper things, some people suddenly arrive, it’s all mac and cheese and good Kraft-brand bliss for a while, but they start overstaying their welcome, cause a lot more petty tantrums and inane misunderstandings as they end up tracking dirt and mud all over your already-messy mind, all before ungraciously storming away from you and never showing their face ever again outside of sleepless nights and cringeworthy memories—but not before knocking down every vase and window and fragile ornament in the house, just for good measure. All you’re going to be left with is more unresolved issues to clean up after and a stranger’s pile of secrets that you don’t have a use for anymore. And worst case scenario, some stranger out there now has your secrets that they might just intend to use to their own means. Not in every case of course, when these things come to a colliding head with a thermonuclear meltdown, it should be for the best for both parties to simply leave things behind and move on. But there’s just far too many entitled, patronising, self-pitying, victim card-holding, choosing beggars out there who would burn the entire solar system to offer their utmost trust and concern to you, just to do a complete 180° as soon as they start to sweat when the climate feels awry, and finally twist your head off and dance on your cremated remains. The sad part of this is, there’s sometimes a strange, lingering, irritating urge to crawl back and have a second go on the classic human burn machine for old times sake, just to fuck things over colossally again ad nauseum. I’d soon as well rather fend off for myself and get well hammered in an Applebee’s carpark at 3 AM on Sunday and throw up in someone’s drive-through meal and get beaten up to a fleshy pulp just to entirely avoid all that nonsense, ta very much. And several well-intended shots of tonic and Robitussin to wash off the terrible hangover aftertaste would also be such a fine treat. Bottoms up, lads.

Also notice that most (keyword is most here folks, I swear I’m not that entirely heartless. yet.) of the longest-standing friends I currently have are the ones that are more so cheery fun and mucking around with each other, and little to no excess baggage dumping. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, I do love that rather silly, affectionate, no-strings-attached sort of tango about them, and I highly appreciate my friends for still putting up with me even when I’m an insufferable prick. I’m always there for them even if that sounds terribly subversive, all that sappy yet genuine stuff and so forth. But even then, I’m already beginning to lose grasp of them as I start to think that I’m irredeemably unworthy for them, as they grow up to find newer people and lead better lives and my crummy puzzle piece falls away from their bigger picture, as I realise just how much I never really knew them at all. Back to professional-level sterile kind of friendship, almost. Soon enough it’ll all just be mass-produced cheesy Hallmark greeting cards every birthdays and Christmas and the occasional awkward water cooler small talk about Chad and Stacey and paramour Davie from the next street maybe having their fifteenth baby whenever we run into each other. Welcome to adulthood, bellend. Everyone’s too busy to care.

Even my oh-so kindhearted family’s been doing their very best recently to try to blatantly alienate me and stay out of my way. I say blatant, and I mean every time someone even tries to reluctantly approach my room, they have a twisted grimace poised on their pious faces like they have their own bleached arsehole hairs stuck in between their fingernails and couldn’t wash it out because I greedily took all the soap in the house and shoved it down my filthy trachea. Not to mention my doting mother’s Oscar-worthy pantomime of her third child’s pure nonexistence since two weeks ago for no particular discernible reason, not to use a dead meme but bitch I got Thanos-snapped out of her dense spacy braincells innit. Maybe because of my shallow, repressive, self-absorbed problems, maybe because they just can’t be bothered anymore after 19 years of being forced to put up with my emo angsty horseshite, maybe because more and more they’re resenting the festering fact that I’ve really done nothing good for them ever since I was forcibly carved out of my mum’s belly like a sentient tumour. Yeah, thanks, ’cause I fucking begged to be here guys, I totally wouldn’t want to be aborted off into Satan’s left armpit if I had the choice. Alright, distasteful tangents aside, the point is that there is simply no solace in talking to anyone anymore. Everyone’s got their own worries and difficulties they’re trying to work through, so what makes your pathetic fucking trauma any more special than theirs? Don’t be a whinging pussy about it. Be like the rest. Suck it up and deal.

If there’s one thing I’m finally starting to learn about life after years and years of idiotically bumbling about contrived people and repeating the same embarrassing mistakes, it’s to just shut it the fuck down and shut the fuck up. Complain quietly. Cry where no one can see you. Indulge in a hundred distractions and vices and coping mechanisms if it would give you some form of relief. Scream at a wall, at a black void, on the internet towards apathetic, faceless pixels who won’t give half a washed-up mermaid’s fishy twat if you killed yourself with some cheap petrol and a blowtorch immediately the next day, before deleting it forever. Hide your abrasive goddamn scars behind a million layers of whatever because who honestly wants to see that grotesque attention-seeking slut (slut is me I guess), and put on a grand show of your useless life if you really need to. There’s absolutely no use in broadcasting emotions and airing out your dirty laundry—except perhaps beyond an occasional societally-acceptable grumble about some trivial matters—anymore. Unless of course, if you’re paying someone thousands of dollars per session for it. Ohhh, what a fucking fantasy.

I do get that it’s nice to have an occasional deep conversation with someone every now and then and I will never mind that sort of refreshing discussion with the right company, but hey, just don’t expect to teeter close to the edge and walk out bone dry, is all. And don’t even think for a second that you could always just dip a tentative toe in whenever you so blithely wish, without one day accidentally slipping and drowning on your own blatant folly; and all before stupidly dragging in the other person with you because your untied shoelaces are so incredibly entangled up with each other. So for both your benefit and for the others, deception and suppression is an acquired skill that might feel rather counterproductive at first, but soon becomes a normalised, familiar, welcoming change all in due time. I don’t know about you, but permanent numbness is better than perpetually-constant sensory overload. That, to me, is the definition of engineered paradise. Call it jaded, cynical, poisonous thinking, grab your violently-optimistic torches and pitchforks and scream hellfire while shivving it straight into my shrieking throat for being overtly negative, but damn, that wouldn’t change the fact that it’s more realistic than simply tossing a rusty bottlecap in an old empty well and wishing for the opposite until your fingers bleed out and your jaws seize up from tetanus. If you’re irreversibly tired of existence anyway, might as well just use that to your highest advantage.

So please, just no more flimsy, annoying, uncomfortable support systems gingerly patting each other on the back like fragile little prissy snowflakes for being ‘oh-so brave’. No more “please go find someone to talk to!” bullshit and other sickeningly banal reassurances. No more actively seeking out extremely toxic codependent relationships in hopes of finding temporary comfort and false redemption, and being dumbly surprised when it all starts to inevitably fall apart. It might work for some people in very certain situations and good on them for seeking help in the proper places, I’m not going to condescendingly lambast them for that, but I just personally find that it’s simply always easier to deal with everything alone. And if you can’t do even that much, then well…at least no one’s going to miss you.


ᵂʰᵉⁿ ʸᵒᵘ ˢᶦᵍⁿᵉᵈ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵒᵗᵗᵉᵈ ˡᶦⁿᵉ
ᴰᶦᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵏ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵍˢ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᶜʰᵃⁿᵍᵉˀ
ᴵ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ʳᵘᵇ ᶦᵗ ᶦⁿ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᶠᵘᶜᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᶠᵃᶜᵉ
ᴬⁿᵈ ᵐᵃᵏᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʳᵉᵐᵉᵐᵇᵉʳ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ
ᴵ ᶜᵃⁿ’ᵗ ʰᵉˡᵖ ᵇᵘᵗ ˡᵃᵘᵍʰ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁿᵒʷ
ᵂᵉ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵍˢ ʷᶦˡˡ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ᶜʰᵃⁿᵍᵉ
ᴵᵗ’ˢ ᵃˡˡ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵇᵘˢᶦⁿᵉˢˢ
ᶦᵗ’ˢ ᵃˡˡ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵇᵘˢᶦⁿᵉˢˢ ⁿᵒʷ·


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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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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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In Moratorium


[ ∅ . ]

“ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ sᴛᴀʀғᴀʟʟ
ʙʀᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴇᴀʀs ᴀɢᴀɪɴ
ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴇʀʏ ʜᴜʀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ sᴏʟᴅ
ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴀᴛ’s ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀsᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ
ғʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ
ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴀᴅᴇ ʏᴏᴜ sᴛᴀɪɴ
ᴡᴇʟʟ, ɪ’ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ʜᴏʟᴅɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴛᴏɴɪɢʜᴛ…”


[ I . ]

You are arcane desire, and influential mania, and the sweetly vulgar taste of expired novocaine hanging above my quivering tongue like eden’s forbidden fruit. You are the contagious, infected swelling beneath the base of my throat that I madly vain to scratch away with both trembling hands, that I constantly want to carve out with a blunt scalpel in a resolute fit of psychosis. You are the deliberate misspelling of a foreign name that sounds frustratingly familiar, but only ever-so vaguely. Not close to a centimetre, teasingly grazing tiptoed silver slippers and half-buried memories. But not quite there yet.

ARE YOU LISTENING?


[ I I . ]

The resonating scream beneath my temples is starting to taper off into a sound akin to the mewling of a crippled fox; gunpowder and bullet hole smouldering in one leg, a rather patient hunter quietly praying by its burrow, steady fingers clasped tightly to the trigger as it sets up the final triumph with a whispered amen. It might just be from the severe blood loss, but my darling hunter, your gentle trilling call sounds almost alluringly enticing to me now. Me, a clever, cunning fox. You, a foolish, bumbling hunter. And yet you always seem to victoriously capture your kill in the end. Am I your final trophy head to be displayed in your cabin with the grandest fanfare, or shall my carcass simply be ferociously gutted and the scrapped remains fed to your rabid, starving dogs?

WHICH ONE SHALL IT BE?


[ I I I . ]

You are convoluted ecstasy and LSD and heroin in its rawest form, a most potent kind of prescription drug that instantly presses through my arm like hot steel and directly flows into my veins—though the hypodermic needle is missing and the vigil candle has completely melted away into stained tears hours, perhaps even weeks ago. But it is incredibly easy to lose track time with you, is it not? Every inch of the rampant hallucinogens traces highways back and forth on my scarred flesh and all over the wrinkles and grey matter of my deliquescent brain, smoothening out track marks and neurons alike as it gradually transforms me into an obedient porcelain mannequin. Just for you, I’ll forget to exhale, so let your guilt swirl through my charred lungs for all it’s worth, and I won’t suffocate. I promise.

DO YOU?


[ I V . ]

There is a new emotion blustering within me as you speak; something that feels like crudely sewing obscure adjectives on the underside of my clavicle, something that I don’t think anyone else with four chambers in their heart is supposed to ever feel; lest one of it inevitably clogs up and withers into paralysis. It renders every paranoid afterthought blindly unresponsive to the rest of my starving body, and sleeps right next to the nerve that could send me straight to comatose if pressed the wrong way. It takes the tiny spots from below your right cheek and collides it together into an explosive myriad constellation, an overwhelming universe that barely begins to abstract the way your unfathomable soul works. It is you: ad infinitum, deathless, enraptured. And me stumblingly trapped in the middle of it all, mere insensible creature hysterically perplexed by your stark impossibility. Dare I ask…dare I ask you why…why this is and should never be? And if I do—god help me if I do—

WOULD IT EVEN MATTER TO HAVE EXISTED AT ALL?


[ Π. ]

“ᴡʜᴀᴛ’s ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀsᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ sᴀʏ?
ᴛʜɪɴɢs ᴀʀᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ɪғ ɪ sᴛᴀʏ
sᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴏᴏᴅɴɪɢʜᴛ
sᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏᴏᴅɴɪɢʜᴛ
ᴄᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴍᴇ? ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴀʀ ᴍᴇ?
ᴄᴀɴ ᴡᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴇɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ
ᴡᴇ’ʟʟ ᴍᴇᴇᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴀʀs ᴄᴏʟʟɪᴅᴇ…”


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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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Transmogrify

They spit me out right through the teeth
I can’t pretend, ash in the wind
Won’t blow again, it was a breeze for you
These hurricanes inside of my brain
Let it rain, made it look easy
Can’t look away, you love the pain…

~*~

I’m sick of feeling happy like this.

Like a hollow happy, all fractured sticks and carved limestone facades and a mimicked genuine smile that does absolutely nothing to quell the bitter, devoid, pathetically-quivering feeling viscously building up in my throat. The desperate, acidic kind, the awful one I just want to violently throw back up but can’t. Fake-real happy.

Fuck that, why couldn’t I just be normal happy?

This dangerous selfishness, it’s like a howling werewolf without a full moon, and I’ll always fall immeasurably short of what I truly feel. I only provoke the worst kind of boiling rage frothing against my curled lips, a bloodstained rabid displeasure—but nothing more—at the fact that I’m happy for you, but not really happy to be so. Empty fucking threats. Instantly dying out short and flat. The synthetic skyline glimmers back to me in a derisive snarl; taunting,

What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?

I want it to tear apart my flimsy skin and reveal the perverse goddamned feral beast hibernating inside, I want my soggy eyes to glint a jaundiced yellow and my grotesquely-disfigured mind to lower its inhibitions and reset to a primal scream, my rewired guts are churning corrosively as they crash away at my torso and starve for some more guts, and my grin at this point only resembles a sinister bared sneer, all vicious teeth and reckless abuse.

If I can’t have it, then everyone else will.

I just finally want to shed off that repugnant, powerless, shaky lie I call my own farcical humanity and then completely let go. Of you. Of everything else. Of everyone else. Including myself. Especially myself.

Maybe then, I’ll truly be happy. Please. God, please.

~*~

I paid the cost, yeah, it’s all my fault
That I ain’t giving up my soul
It’s all my fault, watching me bleed
You cut me down on my knees
No matter what you believe
I think we both can agree
That you can’t blame it on me…

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