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😃
I feel that I am in mourning of something. My bones are aching for something that my mind no longer wants. I ponder the disconnect. The stockholm syndrome seems to come alive only in my art, when I am nearest to my (and your) soul. My mother said that she doesn’t dream. I feel that you have been dreaming of me.
I am so near to knowing, like when you are hit with the sweet whiff of a dream in the middle of a solemn day. Why do we find it easier to dance with ghosts than recognize love when it is near to us. I find that complacency is the most evil of human sickness; it attacks us in silence and we fail to see the truth until the years define the lines on our faces that were once smiles. The body craves what the mind fights to forget. In this way, we cannot escape.
Is this what it feels like? I wonder about the normalcy of emotion that we stifle (thoughtlessly). Do we simply want to share the road that we’ll go before it slips away, or is this meaning something more?
I am so near to knowing, like when you are hit with the sweet whiff of a dream in the middle of a solemn day. Why do we find it easier to dance with ghosts than recognize love when it is near to us. I find that complacency is the most evil of human sickness; it attacks us in silence and we fail to see the truth until the years define the lines on our faces that were once smiles. The body craves what the mind fights to forget. In this way, we cannot escape.
Is this what it feels like? I wonder about the normalcy of emotion that we stifle (thoughtlessly). Do we simply want to share the road that we’ll go before it slips away, or is this meaning something more?
Jun 29, 2025
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just found this track on spotify and i think it's just beautiful, speaks about extending yourself to someone and letting fear just be, not letting it control you but not suppressing it either. it really speaks to my life right now, trying to be genuine for someone without overwhelming myself.
-- Your fingers laced in mine like five tourniquets, stopping empty words that flow from my empty nervous lips, your fingers like tourniquets. I'm enjoying the silence like this, i can hear the sound of your lips as you read me Robert Frost. And silence cross fades into a bliss that has stuck with me this week, the sound of Frost on your Lips, "Not Even The Rain" you say as you read me E.E. Cummings. I read Kevin Fitzpatrick yesterday, he talked about reading poems to his partner Tina, she was moving to a farm in Northern Minnesota. A tourniquet is that look that you give when you're right where you're supposed to be, and i know there's so many places to be. And i've never met someone who is at so many at once, even sometimes gracefully, even sometimes gracefully. Gracefully, you tell me about New York, gonna see Bruce Springsteen on broadway, i kiss you in some Portland driveway, you say sorry for being so many places at once, you wanna feel grounded with me, I say i don't wanna be your rock i want to be your sea legs If you move on will you at least give me a five star yelp review so i can be friends with your friends, my collar for your tears, my sleeve for your snot, a bout of crying as you tell me about fear of loss and giving which leads to loss which leads to fear making it hard to give
your fingers laced in mine like five tourniquets, stopping words that we'd forget, i won't forget that look that you give, tie it above the wounds, i've had a rough month or two, you're like my sea legs. making out in some Portland Strangers driveway, gettin dizzy as we stumble the long way to my house, the feeling of motion as we lay still in my bed and you read me Frost and Cummings and Elliot, the feeling of motion as i lay still and you show me: how to put a moment on a page, i hang some pictures up at my new place you light the sage, your spirits lift the room higher and higher i let some dire feelings of loosing you burn with the sage i put you on pages and pages of moments and moments I got nothing to hide, you tell me about your friend Joseph who see's through peoples lies. Sometimes you hid behind your eyes making it much more potent when i see right through them, and i see right through them
I let fear of you moving on burn with the sage, i put silent moments of your tourniquet fingers on the page, and i listen to your breathing and the sounds of kids playing at the school across the street as we lay through the afternoon. My collar for your tears my sleeve for your snot, some happy crying as we leave behind fear of loss, only giving, which led me here, in your arms, without fail, over moments and moments, and pages, and again only moments which lead me here in your
-- Your fingers laced in mine like five tourniquets, stopping empty words that flow from my empty nervous lips, your fingers like tourniquets. I'm enjoying the silence like this, i can hear the sound of your lips as you read me Robert Frost. And silence cross fades into a bliss that has stuck with me this week, the sound of Frost on your Lips, "Not Even The Rain" you say as you read me E.E. Cummings. I read Kevin Fitzpatrick yesterday, he talked about reading poems to his partner Tina, she was moving to a farm in Northern Minnesota. A tourniquet is that look that you give when you're right where you're supposed to be, and i know there's so many places to be. And i've never met someone who is at so many at once, even sometimes gracefully, even sometimes gracefully. Gracefully, you tell me about New York, gonna see Bruce Springsteen on broadway, i kiss you in some Portland driveway, you say sorry for being so many places at once, you wanna feel grounded with me, I say i don't wanna be your rock i want to be your sea legs If you move on will you at least give me a five star yelp review so i can be friends with your friends, my collar for your tears, my sleeve for your snot, a bout of crying as you tell me about fear of loss and giving which leads to loss which leads to fear making it hard to give
your fingers laced in mine like five tourniquets, stopping words that we'd forget, i won't forget that look that you give, tie it above the wounds, i've had a rough month or two, you're like my sea legs. making out in some Portland Strangers driveway, gettin dizzy as we stumble the long way to my house, the feeling of motion as we lay still in my bed and you read me Frost and Cummings and Elliot, the feeling of motion as i lay still and you show me: how to put a moment on a page, i hang some pictures up at my new place you light the sage, your spirits lift the room higher and higher i let some dire feelings of loosing you burn with the sage i put you on pages and pages of moments and moments I got nothing to hide, you tell me about your friend Joseph who see's through peoples lies. Sometimes you hid behind your eyes making it much more potent when i see right through them, and i see right through them
I let fear of you moving on burn with the sage, i put silent moments of your tourniquet fingers on the page, and i listen to your breathing and the sounds of kids playing at the school across the street as we lay through the afternoon. My collar for your tears my sleeve for your snot, some happy crying as we leave behind fear of loss, only giving, which led me here, in your arms, without fail, over moments and moments, and pages, and again only moments which lead me here in your
Dec 25, 2024
Rec
For someone who claims to identify so closely with solitude, uncovering just how tethered I was to the emotions of people I love was a crispy realization. Of course, that attachment is the basis for any kind of relationship. You cannot claim to “have someone” in your life if you do not feel some kind of emotional connection towards them. The stronger the connection, the stronger the relationship. We all know this. However, there is something to be said about a relationship that is “too good”; a bond so strong due to its shocking lack of tension. In hindsight of various broken and fragmented connections I’ve been apart of, any relationship that exists while remaining entirely unscathed now kind of terrifies me.
I believe there can be such a thing as “too much love”, and I think those who have given or received it know when they have done so. It’s a mistake anyone is capable of making. Imagine a relationship so polished, free from any erosion (visible or otherwise); seemingly perfect. This type of connection can only be established through a building of trust and an abundance of time. However, I’ve come to learn that the more impeccable bonds tend to break easy when faced with their first real blow. Birds only crash into the cleanest of glass.
*"If music be the food of love, play on; / Give me excess of it...*"
I don’t want excess. For the food of love, I am no glutton. I eat until I am full and push my plate aside. I used to love like my life depended on it. I put those people whom I adored on the highest of pedestals, framed them in my gallery and admired new details every time we shared a visit. Maybe I just hadn’t been wronged enough to ever think that I could be wounded by those I dote on so heavily. What is it with loving and being loved that makes feeling hurt seem so impossible? Why must love shatter all preconceived expectations of what emotion is? Is love really so massive, so gargantuan that it conquers all other feeling? Yes, and no. At least that’s what I think. This is all just what I think. I don’t want to come across as some great romantic or lovesick puppy or old friend. I’m just trying to figure out the right way to love, like everyone else.
*"If music be the food of love, play on; / Give me excess of it...*"
I don’t want excess. For the food of love, I am no glutton. I eat until I am full and push my plate aside. I used to love like my life depended on it. I put those people whom I adored on the highest of pedestals, framed them in my gallery and admired new details every time we shared a visit. Maybe I just hadn’t been wronged enough to ever think that I could be wounded by those I dote on so heavily. What is it with loving and being loved that makes feeling hurt seem so impossible? Why must love shatter all preconceived expectations of what emotion is? Is love really so massive, so gargantuan that it conquers all other feeling? Yes, and no. At least that’s what I think. This is all just what I think. I don’t want to come across as some great romantic or lovesick puppy or old friend. I’m just trying to figure out the right way to love, like everyone else.
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July 2, 2:12 P.M.
☆ buttons
☆ the feeling of iced matcha running down my throat
☆ ache
☆ religion
☆ Type O Negative
☆ peeling wallpaper
☆ how much my mother's side profile looks like mine
☆ Willoughby Tucker
☆ Peter obtaining the piano for Mariska
☆ how one can be so cruel to their own small forms of flesh and blood, creations of their hands, a love meant to be flourished instead withering to hurt. Maybe its the maternal instincts in me, but maybe its not and instead just basic morals, but what are good morals? Do I just have a savior complex, or am I not doing enough? Curiosity the Mars rover singing 'Happy Birthday' to herself makes my heart break. It's ridiculous that its something I cry over yet why is it not talked about more?
☆ I feel so many things to the point of guilt and don't know how to express it other than crying
☆ buttons
☆ the feeling of iced matcha running down my throat
☆ ache
☆ religion
☆ Type O Negative
☆ peeling wallpaper
☆ how much my mother's side profile looks like mine
☆ Willoughby Tucker
☆ Peter obtaining the piano for Mariska
☆ how one can be so cruel to their own small forms of flesh and blood, creations of their hands, a love meant to be flourished instead withering to hurt. Maybe its the maternal instincts in me, but maybe its not and instead just basic morals, but what are good morals? Do I just have a savior complex, or am I not doing enough? Curiosity the Mars rover singing 'Happy Birthday' to herself makes my heart break. It's ridiculous that its something I cry over yet why is it not talked about more?
☆ I feel so many things to the point of guilt and don't know how to express it other than crying
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i love to wear red nails and an old coach bag. shoutout to my mom!!!!!! k bye
