sometimes, a moment arises in which i know that everything around me is so wonderfully and so terribly temporary. i realize in this small, warm bubble that nothing in my life matters that much in the long run. it does to people who are around at the moment. but in general, in the scheme of things, most people will never know i was ever alive.  

what i mean is. most people will never know i have existed. that i was ever loved or detested. that people celebrated my birth. that i had a life on this planet. dreams, energy, imagination. people will never remember that i had baby doll clothes from decades ago that meant a lot to me and were hand-stitched by my grandmother who no one else realizes was ever alive. 

it’s not so much humbling, as it is a bizarre dark, albeit cozy cavern filled with the tokens of my life’s journey. it all keeps getting shoved further and further into it. and i know that no one, no matter how close; no matter how loved, no matter how integral to my every being… will ever understand it or love it or know it once i am gone. 

vapour.

so there.

somebody make my hair and makeup and clothes look like this. mmmkthanksbuhbye!

i want a miniature village all my own!

it’s been a while. a good long while. but she can feel the whisper of change on her skin. it had taken every ounce of fortitude within her to make it through the summer.

it was a summer full of wonderful changes, a lot of sun, a lot of laughs, a lot of drinks and good people. she did it up right. it had been one of the best summers she could remember. 

summer though, was still a bitch as it always has been. like the pretty girl in high school that would fuck with you just because she could. a heaving mass of merciless heat. a bitch, plain and simple.

but now. now the air is just the tiniest bit drier. her lungs work just a little bit better. her hair is a few inches longer. her spirit slightly more calm.

now, the crickets aren’t singing as loud as they were. the lightning bugs barely blink. dark beer is replacing white wine with ice. sweet potatoes replacing watermelon. the sunsets have finally begun to saunter in at a reasonable hour. 

soon she will need to buy a new coat. the thin boy scout shirt she wore day-in and day-out won’t cut it anymore. soon her tan, thin feet will be hidden away in broken-in boots and become pale from the lack of exposure.

soon the sidewalks will swirl with the remains of golden branches. she will dab the scents of amber and smoke and clove on her skin. she will shove her delicate, cold hands into her pockets and let the wind throw her around on long walks.

her grin will become wider. the highs will last longer; and she will continue smoking her cigarrettes down to the filter.

(via splitpeavintageblog)

after all, grandma always said… leopard is a neutral.

there have been days when she’s woken up absolutely livid with herself. sometimes it takes a few minutes to remember why. but, she always remembers eventually.

she looks at herself and either says “oh shit, i don’t like that and i should really change it” and in a day feels better; or she says “you truly suck at life. what the fuck is wrong with you?” and beats the living hell out of herself. for a good long while. 

it’s a sick feeling. a tight coiling rope in her gut. a hot, dry throat and red eyes. a deeply furrowed brow. a monumental disdain.

is it because she see characteristics that remind her of horrible people? people who have hurt her time and time again. is it disappointment? she’s annoyingly fond of herself so it isn’t self-loathing per se. what is it?

those days when she wakes up and proceeds to mentally abuse herself for being basically human are the hardest days indeed. one can’t escape that bully too easily.  it’s a very dark and frightening room she has built for herself.

there are bizarre moments where something akin to rage boils up from some place deep; and she can feel it swirling and gusting about making a kerfuffle of absolutely benign situations. these moments, rare as they are, make the walls heave and fold into one another.

every nerve becomes raw, every sound seems to flick her ears like the boys used to do to each other in junior high school. each outside occurrence, a phone ringing, a simple question being asked, the rhythmic tumble of a washing machine… they all seem able to tip her into a complete flip-out. “able to” is the key phrase. she never really ever gets tipped that far, kind of like a weeble wobble. but damn it if she doesn’t fight the urge once in a blue moon to punch a hole in something. to destroy things that make fabulously wicked sounds when the break; and to tear out of town and live in a conestoga wagon in the woods. 

instead of feeding that so-rare-its-almost-mythical side of herself, she sits still. she forces the train back onto the tracks. sometimes it takes a cocktail or other form of magick potion. sometimes it takes a tom waits song. other times it takes a little primal scream therapy on a dark canopy road on a midnight drive. whatever it takes to keep from tipping too far.

her house was a museum of dying beasts… ashtrays and telephone tables. reader’s digests and old faded cans of soda. imposing religious figures who don’t say much but watch you move from room to room.

she would sit forever in her “home of the future” and talk about him as if he still walked the earth. as if he had run to the store for more pall-malls and pull-tab beers. the same non-descript music and talk moved through the warm kitchen from the television in flumes; and every few minutes a wave of overheated nausea took me over.

my job was to listen. to sit there and listen and make sure every thursday that she wasn’t dead yet. i heard the stories. she told them as if they were current. i saw her photo albums. she pulled them out with a distant-eyed pride. the pages were yellowed. the people in them smiling, drinking, living…were all dead now. their kids long-since moved on and probably retired somewhere temperate.

dead pets, dead friends, horseshoe wreaths. their current condition wiped from the majority of her mind. in a way, i found her fortunate to be a time capsule. it seemed far easier to live that way than to take her current world for what it was. in her world she was young, nubile, in love and drinking tab.

she often sat alone and watched. she watched men watch her. uneasy, taken men who shifted in their seats and glanced up heavily from their cheap beer and made cheap advances. she watched couples enthralled with themselves, unable to see a slew of truths.

she saw meat markets, first dates, and beautiful karmic moments. she watched fights and kisses; the beginnings and endings of bathroom fucks. she observed sauced barflies. she watched herself through everyone else. she drank and wrote on paper napkins.

she had a way of looking at a man that caused a melancholic tremble through him. the way roy orbison’s falsetto could travel on a note, or elvis’ voice could penetrate adolescent girls. a pure dirty innocence. it sure was something.