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
Sunday, September 16, 2012
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.
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