Dear Friend
Sometimes life feels like a horrible song that I can't get out of my head because it's so undeniably catchy.
It has not been one of those days. Well, two days. Well, seven days. But sometimes two days blur into four and four just desires to be more and meets five and they blend into one and it feels like this:
It has not been one of those days. Well, two days. Well, seven days. But sometimes two days blur into four and four just desires to be more and meets five and they blend into one and it feels like this:
Wake up eat breakfast it's one in the afternoon I have class in an hour I've got to print this essay, shove cereal down my throat and pull boots on as quick as I can, run, run, run. I've made it! Of course the printer's not working . . .
I'm home now, did I zone out of class? I need to write but I feel empty inside but I feel so full inside, sometimes I can'd decide which is which. Everything is the same thing and nothing all at once, the same picture from different angles, the same coin on different sides, the same mug cracked in different places; I'm placed in this bed, there's a stringy mess of streets before me, sometimes I walk them, wondering just how the blood flows through them, the corner shops and restaurants, the five million Costas . . .
I'm three thousand miles out of place but I feel rooted in this spot, I could go anywhere I want but I don't know where I want to go . . .
If you could fly, would you do it? Would you make that leap into the empty air? Could you whittle away at the massive splinters in your feet and take off? What would you find up there? Cold and loneliness but which feeling is which? The world is tiny between the spaces of your fingertips and blurred into glazed over splatters of color . . .
I haven't written each day because every time I try to type out what's happened I have no idea what has. It's the same thing. Read, think about writing, eat . . . and I've gotten lost in it. Writing to you is like writing for myself, I have impressions and I need to understand them but I never understand them, my hands and my head never work in unity, one always tries to usurp the other and that makes it hurt in between, no wonder I'm in a constant state of heartache.
Kellie and I sing random songs until one or two in the morning.
I wear my peace bracelet on my bicep that has no bicep.
I bought mushrooms that expire tonight, so I've been throwing mushrooms in everything I eat.
There are more Tandoori restaurants in just a few London streets than there probably are in the rest of the world.
I've gotten my iPad to charge, so skyping is a thing.
My fang also tore, but this was when I was taking it off so it's not as bad. I just need to find a different string. It's also rusting . . . bitchass thing.
Aristotle is dry as fuck, but there are things to be learned there.
Started Genesis in Cultural Foundations.
Finally out of Medieval London in A History of London.
Why does my writing professor not really check the status of our writing ability as class goes on???
[Here is where I tried to put up my Sadness and Sorrow cover but I couldn't because life sucks and cameras suck and I'll wait till I have my action cam to not suck and ugh life why first world problems.]
I'm home now, did I zone out of class? I need to write but I feel empty inside but I feel so full inside, sometimes I can'd decide which is which. Everything is the same thing and nothing all at once, the same picture from different angles, the same coin on different sides, the same mug cracked in different places; I'm placed in this bed, there's a stringy mess of streets before me, sometimes I walk them, wondering just how the blood flows through them, the corner shops and restaurants, the five million Costas . . .
I'm three thousand miles out of place but I feel rooted in this spot, I could go anywhere I want but I don't know where I want to go . . .
If you could fly, would you do it? Would you make that leap into the empty air? Could you whittle away at the massive splinters in your feet and take off? What would you find up there? Cold and loneliness but which feeling is which? The world is tiny between the spaces of your fingertips and blurred into glazed over splatters of color . . .
How can I be happy and sad at the same time?
I haven't written each day because every time I try to type out what's happened I have no idea what has. It's the same thing. Read, think about writing, eat . . . and I've gotten lost in it. Writing to you is like writing for myself, I have impressions and I need to understand them but I never understand them, my hands and my head never work in unity, one always tries to usurp the other and that makes it hurt in between, no wonder I'm in a constant state of heartache.
Kellie and I sing random songs until one or two in the morning.
I wear my peace bracelet on my bicep that has no bicep.
I bought mushrooms that expire tonight, so I've been throwing mushrooms in everything I eat.
There are more Tandoori restaurants in just a few London streets than there probably are in the rest of the world.
I've gotten my iPad to charge, so skyping is a thing.
My fang also tore, but this was when I was taking it off so it's not as bad. I just need to find a different string. It's also rusting . . . bitchass thing.
Aristotle is dry as fuck, but there are things to be learned there.
Started Genesis in Cultural Foundations.
Finally out of Medieval London in A History of London.
Why does my writing professor not really check the status of our writing ability as class goes on???
[Here is where I tried to put up my Sadness and Sorrow cover but I couldn't because life sucks and cameras suck and I'll wait till I have my action cam to not suck and ugh life why first world problems.]
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