The curly hair standing before a bouquet of orange leaves that tremble beneath the cold autumn morning/
A scene of crackling empathy staring at the mirth, fear, and ecstasy between the pages of a paperback/
Meandering about the naked streets at night, speeding up as wind presses up against our faces/
Always forget how close we are to one another - connections and missed connections/
I am touched by the tangible energy as we shape our society; we refuse to sit still/
Quiet gratitude stirs any time the wind pushes your hair out of your face/
The illumination, knowing that we have changed a real human/
And it does not stop at one; it goes over, again and again/
Looking at every inch of the lines we've drawn
and seeing the corners of every tragedy
astonished, we see that we learn
my god, how we've learned/
I stare forward and see
with shock and awe
a luminous future/
I love this earth
too much to
give it all
away to
a man.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Saturday, October 13, 2012
scratches
The same rain pats my head and I slip my feet into the same rubber boots and the rooms smell the same - the exact same, almost eerily so - and the trees are all the same different fall-appropriate pigment. I'm chasing for hours in the future. This place is the lover I never could quite love. This place is the exact same place it was ten months ago. This static backdrop allows us to see how we (as the dynamic characters) have changed. I'm not in love. I'm not ready to leave my body. I'm not thinking about you and only you constantly. My thoughts have become scattered images I cannot trace with exact clarity. I'm alright; I'm quite alright.
I love this place, just not enough. I love these people, but I cannot stay. I'd like those thirteen hours back although they've rotted more terribly than the seconds that expire with each word I type. Gone, gone...gone.
I never could quite love this place.
This was the second chance.
I know this because I could not love this place even without the burden of begging for your affection.
How could I lose you? How did it happen faster than the time we lost so quickly? You were a silent goodbye I was not ready for. But I'm quite alright. I'm not ashamed for a lack of sadness.
It's difficult to trace the contours of each dead hour, trying to grasp them by the tail before they flee for good. Could we chase those hours forward? Of chips and salsa, of Pad Thai, of planning, of not planning, of haze, of talking (about anything), of curly hair, of little touches and bigger giggles, of no goodbye. Of rotting these hours to the core, leaving nothing for now and room for the future.
I love this place, just not enough. I love these people, but I cannot stay. I'd like those thirteen hours back although they've rotted more terribly than the seconds that expire with each word I type. Gone, gone...gone.
I never could quite love this place.
This was the second chance.
I know this because I could not love this place even without the burden of begging for your affection.
How could I lose you? How did it happen faster than the time we lost so quickly? You were a silent goodbye I was not ready for. But I'm quite alright. I'm not ashamed for a lack of sadness.
It's difficult to trace the contours of each dead hour, trying to grasp them by the tail before they flee for good. Could we chase those hours forward? Of chips and salsa, of Pad Thai, of planning, of not planning, of haze, of talking (about anything), of curly hair, of little touches and bigger giggles, of no goodbye. Of rotting these hours to the core, leaving nothing for now and room for the future.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Monday, October 8, 2012
The immediate world that surrounds me will turn to a bleaker angle, and I'll be trapped inside a dark dimension for a thirty hours. After crawling out of a bad day, I'll scratch words into an acid-free notebook - I'll assemble all the thoughts and ideas and emotions relevant to the situation just to establish significance and validity from the darkness. But the ink is perishable, and the meaning I have just constructed will be useless and outdated within four seconds. And once it's over, I'll have to reboot the system and fall into a similar darkness and fabricate similar meanings and experience similar expirations. The rounds repeat until the forecast integrates itself into the realm of nothingness and I become nothing more than weak and tired and unable.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
no alarms/surprises please
good evening sir
my old companion
how are you and
it seems like years since we saw each other last
since you last embraced me
and since you last shook my knees
to the floor.
we jump right into things
no flirting, no beating around the bush
no bullshit
we make love under the concealed moonlight
i remember
the very first time.
unaccustomed to the strange
rough movement
i could feel
my imminent fall.
now it is sweet,
i know you are at my door
i had been expecting you
and your timely arrival.
we dance together
-ashley
my old companion
how are you and
it seems like years since we saw each other last
since you last embraced me
and since you last shook my knees
to the floor.
we jump right into things
no flirting, no beating around the bush
no bullshit
we make love under the concealed moonlight
i remember
the very first time.
unaccustomed to the strange
rough movement
i could feel
my imminent fall.
now it is sweet,
i know you are at my door
i had been expecting you
and your timely arrival.
we dance together
-ashley
Friday, September 7, 2012
re: thank you's
Yes of course I remember, how could I forget how you feel?
You know you were my first time, a new feel.
It will never get old, not in my soul, not in my spirit, keep it alive.
We'll go down this road 'til it turns from color to black and white.
Everyday almost. And on the days we were together, time would glide. Most of the day I'd see him, and his smile. I'd hear his conversation and his silence.. until it was time to sleep. Sleep I would often share with him. By the time I realized I was in love, it was malignant. It was hopeless. There was no escaping, no negotiating with the feeling. No choice. It was my first love, it changed my life.
Frank Ocean writes with poignant honesty.
I felt like I'd only imagined reprocity for years. Now imagine being thrown from a cliff. No, I wasn't on a cliff, I was still in my car telling myself it was gonna be fine and to take deep breaths. I took the breaths and carried on. I kept up a peculiar friendship with him because I couldn't imagine keeping up my life without him. I struggled to master myself and my emotions. I wasn't always successful. The dance went on.. I kept the rhymth for several summers after. It's winter now.
I'm trying not to repost a ton of quotes/songs/other media, as my Tumblr serves that purpose, but this was too much and too important to pass up. As if his debut studio album was not enough, Mr. Ocean's uncanny ability to so eerily trace his thoughts into an intricate constellation not only through song but through prose. His mastery at clarifying the enigmatic is enigmatic in and of itself.
I wrote to keep myself busy and sane. I wanted to create worlds that were rosier than mine. I tried to channel overwhelming emotions. I'm surprised at how far all of it has taken me. Before writing this I'd told some people my story. I'm sure these people kept me alive, kept me safe.. Sincerely, these are the folks I wanna thank from the floor of my heart. Everyone of you knows who you are.. Great humans, probably angels. I don't know what happens now, and that's alrite. I don't have any secrets I need kept anymore. There's probably some small shit still, but you know what I mean. I was never alone, as much as I felt like it.. As much as I still do sometimes. I never was. I don't think I could ever be. Thanks. To my first love, I'm grateful for you. Grateful that even though it wasn't what I hoped for and even though it was never enough, it was. Some things never are.. and we were. I won't forget you. I won't forget the summer. I'll remember who I was when I met you. I'll remember who you were and how we both changed and stayed the same. I've never had more respect for life and living than I have right now. Maybe it takes a near death experience to feel alive. Thank. To my mother, you raised me strong. I know I'm only brave because you were first.. so thank you. All of you. For everything good. I feel like a free man. If I listen closely.. I can hear the sky falling too.
You know you were my first time, a new feel.
It will never get old, not in my soul, not in my spirit, keep it alive.
We'll go down this road 'til it turns from color to black and white.
Everyday almost. And on the days we were together, time would glide. Most of the day I'd see him, and his smile. I'd hear his conversation and his silence.. until it was time to sleep. Sleep I would often share with him. By the time I realized I was in love, it was malignant. It was hopeless. There was no escaping, no negotiating with the feeling. No choice. It was my first love, it changed my life.
Frank Ocean writes with poignant honesty.
I felt like I'd only imagined reprocity for years. Now imagine being thrown from a cliff. No, I wasn't on a cliff, I was still in my car telling myself it was gonna be fine and to take deep breaths. I took the breaths and carried on. I kept up a peculiar friendship with him because I couldn't imagine keeping up my life without him. I struggled to master myself and my emotions. I wasn't always successful. The dance went on.. I kept the rhymth for several summers after. It's winter now.
I'm trying not to repost a ton of quotes/songs/other media, as my Tumblr serves that purpose, but this was too much and too important to pass up. As if his debut studio album was not enough, Mr. Ocean's uncanny ability to so eerily trace his thoughts into an intricate constellation not only through song but through prose. His mastery at clarifying the enigmatic is enigmatic in and of itself.
I wrote to keep myself busy and sane. I wanted to create worlds that were rosier than mine. I tried to channel overwhelming emotions. I'm surprised at how far all of it has taken me. Before writing this I'd told some people my story. I'm sure these people kept me alive, kept me safe.. Sincerely, these are the folks I wanna thank from the floor of my heart. Everyone of you knows who you are.. Great humans, probably angels. I don't know what happens now, and that's alrite. I don't have any secrets I need kept anymore. There's probably some small shit still, but you know what I mean. I was never alone, as much as I felt like it.. As much as I still do sometimes. I never was. I don't think I could ever be. Thanks. To my first love, I'm grateful for you. Grateful that even though it wasn't what I hoped for and even though it was never enough, it was. Some things never are.. and we were. I won't forget you. I won't forget the summer. I'll remember who I was when I met you. I'll remember who you were and how we both changed and stayed the same. I've never had more respect for life and living than I have right now. Maybe it takes a near death experience to feel alive. Thank. To my mother, you raised me strong. I know I'm only brave because you were first.. so thank you. All of you. For everything good. I feel like a free man. If I listen closely.. I can hear the sky falling too.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
oxygen
A section of the universe in western Washington had positioned itself into a Thursday evening in mid-November, when the atmosphere was a rusty metal and cigarette smoke so gently folded within the seams of the air. I had been shrouded in deep confusion for roughly six weeks, but it felt more like forty years at the time. For some time I had accepted the fact that I would, in fact, and quite soon, try to leave the Earth. I decided to execute this plan on that Thursday evening of rust and smoke and cold weather.
But the revolting fact remains: that I haven't tried to hang myself and I haven't been cutting myself up and I haven't been enveloped in a cloud of opaque darkness, the same darkness that provided me with so many words and ways through which I could elucidate the uneven ricochet between anger and apathy and manic frenzy.
And there lies the problem: what the hell am I supposed to write about, if not on darkness and the morbid?
Whenever I was bad, I maintained the ability to more closely identify with my favorite authors whose primary works stemmed from their mental illnesses. In spite of that, I now find myself in the blaring reality of a metamorphosis. During the introduction of this transition, I found myself sad, so I would cling onto David Foster Wallace and beg for Virginia Woolf to take me back. I wasn't ready to say goodbye. But the more I'd let myself live - that is, physically and sometimes mildly hedonistically - the easier it was to alleviate my twisted need to remain a trying hermit. I explored, slowly. I began to realize the dreadful and the beautiful: human beings are all quite insane, very insane, but the idiosyncrasies and discrepancies that render our characters unique from one another are derived from the choices we make and take to display such insanity. To be part of such a beautiful, hilarious, destructive, and hopeful world gives me an honored feeling of acceptance. I'm thrilled to be here.
But the revolting fact remains: that I haven't tried to hang myself and I haven't been cutting myself up and I haven't been enveloped in a cloud of opaque darkness, the same darkness that provided me with so many words and ways through which I could elucidate the uneven ricochet between anger and apathy and manic frenzy.
And there lies the problem: what the hell am I supposed to write about, if not on darkness and the morbid?
Whenever I was bad, I maintained the ability to more closely identify with my favorite authors whose primary works stemmed from their mental illnesses. In spite of that, I now find myself in the blaring reality of a metamorphosis. During the introduction of this transition, I found myself sad, so I would cling onto David Foster Wallace and beg for Virginia Woolf to take me back. I wasn't ready to say goodbye. But the more I'd let myself live - that is, physically and sometimes mildly hedonistically - the easier it was to alleviate my twisted need to remain a trying hermit. I explored, slowly. I began to realize the dreadful and the beautiful: human beings are all quite insane, very insane, but the idiosyncrasies and discrepancies that render our characters unique from one another are derived from the choices we make and take to display such insanity. To be part of such a beautiful, hilarious, destructive, and hopeful world gives me an honored feeling of acceptance. I'm thrilled to be here.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
scratched
I was convinced that I was to survive a turbulent road to forgive a man who did no wrong. I had completely complied with this plan, and I believed that the process was the only definitive aspect of my future. However, I don't believe in this anymore. As long as I act in accordance with this broken configuration, and as long as I blindly accept the purpose of the plan, progress will be but an abstract notion.
I find the words to be true: you left me alone and in tears. You left me broken, yes, but ruined, no.
I intended to dissect my feelings and display them with coincidentally corresponding real events from the past. I wanted so badly to publish these elaborate rants (on matters regarding anything and everything...nothing would be safe), as if I had a subconscious desire to reveal some horrible secret about you(a secret that would have existed only within the confines of my mind). And while such a blog would have been potentially interesting, uniquely macabre, and maybe a little hilarious, it would've ultimately only solidified my character as one of pessimism and cynicism. So no, I don't think I'm going to sing a sad song declaring license to use my past as a justification for a bleak attitude towards real and good and really good things like love and hope.
Also, I apologize for the poorly drawn-out introduction. I'm a sophomore in college who went tremendously off course a few months ago. It's better now, and although my future remains wickedly unplanned (which sometimes mildly freaks me out still), I don't feel quite as lost. I am quite content with existing.
I find the words to be true: you left me alone and in tears. You left me broken, yes, but ruined, no.
I intended to dissect my feelings and display them with coincidentally corresponding real events from the past. I wanted so badly to publish these elaborate rants (on matters regarding anything and everything...nothing would be safe), as if I had a subconscious desire to reveal some horrible secret about you(a secret that would have existed only within the confines of my mind). And while such a blog would have been potentially interesting, uniquely macabre, and maybe a little hilarious, it would've ultimately only solidified my character as one of pessimism and cynicism. So no, I don't think I'm going to sing a sad song declaring license to use my past as a justification for a bleak attitude towards real and good and really good things like love and hope.
Also, I apologize for the poorly drawn-out introduction. I'm a sophomore in college who went tremendously off course a few months ago. It's better now, and although my future remains wickedly unplanned (which sometimes mildly freaks me out still), I don't feel quite as lost. I am quite content with existing.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
a letter
i was making life decisions in the shower one evening when i was younger (i think it was the fourth grade) and i suddenly thought that "running out of time" would make the best book title ever, and i was so set on writing a book titled just that, and when we went to the library the next day i checked to see if it was taken and it was. it was taken by one of my favorite authors, margaret peterson haddix (i went apeshit for those "shadow children" books back then). i then realized that i had probably caught a glimpse of the title in a library before, and that it wasn't such an organic idea that stemmed from my own mind.
i'm so full of shit, and it's exhausting. i've been writing so many fucking blog posts and they're all too shitty to post. i claim this blog to be exploited fiction...when i thought of it, i was like "fuck that's a brilliant title" and my friend agreed so this site was born. i googled the title just to make sure no one had used it for anything important, so don't worry, i'm good.
as i was saying (before i went on my utterly unnecessary rant regarding the etymology of this blog's title), i'm so full of shit. one moment i'll want this blog to be profound, dark, real - and then i'll watch a video of an animal having babies or something, and i'll be all optimistic and shit and try to make this blog exciting and fun.
this is supposed to be fiction, but i'm afraid i'm going to let myself down a bit and publish some real things once in a while...including this post.
i'll be writing about something that i think is really raw and dark - like i've written accounts of my suicide attempts because i think oh this might interest some people, this isn't something everyone in the world does everyday, maybe the fact that the subject is a little macabre and unconventional will deter readers from my shitty ass writing. it's the truth when you're writing and writing and you're all "oh my god, writer's block ain't got shit on me, i'm like the next hemingway" and then you take a break to reread your work and all you can see is the shitty, shitty reality: the word "that" is used way too many fucking times and you're all like "damn i wrote that many run-on sentences?!" and you want to be surprised, as if an alien invaded your mind and did all the shitty writing for you, but then you realize you're not surprised at all and it's just another shitty draft to crumple up and throw out.
relax, i'm environmentally friendly - i saved all the drafts. what the fuck for, i don't know, but it's there in case i feel some sudden urge to post something.
god, what i would do to be a sweet, smart, loving girl. i wish i could love everyone. fuck.
you should also know that...i swear to god i'm interesting. i mean i've got all these doctors and shrinks and a history (and an obnoxious presence) of mental illnesses and medications and shit...the problem is, i revel most when i'm in bed alone, so after a while there's little to write about. i'm not creative (because creativity is making something out of nothing, and since i've got nothing to write about, i should still come up with something good, right? see, i'm not creative).
this is my promise to you: i guarantee pure shit, and nothing more.
welcome to hell.
i'm so full of shit, and it's exhausting. i've been writing so many fucking blog posts and they're all too shitty to post. i claim this blog to be exploited fiction...when i thought of it, i was like "fuck that's a brilliant title" and my friend agreed so this site was born. i googled the title just to make sure no one had used it for anything important, so don't worry, i'm good.
as i was saying (before i went on my utterly unnecessary rant regarding the etymology of this blog's title), i'm so full of shit. one moment i'll want this blog to be profound, dark, real - and then i'll watch a video of an animal having babies or something, and i'll be all optimistic and shit and try to make this blog exciting and fun.
this is supposed to be fiction, but i'm afraid i'm going to let myself down a bit and publish some real things once in a while...including this post.
i'll be writing about something that i think is really raw and dark - like i've written accounts of my suicide attempts because i think oh this might interest some people, this isn't something everyone in the world does everyday, maybe the fact that the subject is a little macabre and unconventional will deter readers from my shitty ass writing. it's the truth when you're writing and writing and you're all "oh my god, writer's block ain't got shit on me, i'm like the next hemingway" and then you take a break to reread your work and all you can see is the shitty, shitty reality: the word "that" is used way too many fucking times and you're all like "damn i wrote that many run-on sentences?!" and you want to be surprised, as if an alien invaded your mind and did all the shitty writing for you, but then you realize you're not surprised at all and it's just another shitty draft to crumple up and throw out.
relax, i'm environmentally friendly - i saved all the drafts. what the fuck for, i don't know, but it's there in case i feel some sudden urge to post something.
god, what i would do to be a sweet, smart, loving girl. i wish i could love everyone. fuck.
you should also know that...i swear to god i'm interesting. i mean i've got all these doctors and shrinks and a history (and an obnoxious presence) of mental illnesses and medications and shit...the problem is, i revel most when i'm in bed alone, so after a while there's little to write about. i'm not creative (because creativity is making something out of nothing, and since i've got nothing to write about, i should still come up with something good, right? see, i'm not creative).
this is my promise to you: i guarantee pure shit, and nothing more.
welcome to hell.
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