3:21 am 13 notes
“And in the flush of the first few days of joy I confidently tell myself (not expecting what I’ll do in three weeks only) ‘no more dissipation, it’s time for me to quietly watch the world and even enjoy it, first in woods like these, then just calmly walk and talk among people of the world, no booze, no drugs, no binges, no bouts with beatniks and drunks and junkies and everybody, no more I ask myself the question O why is God torturing me, that’s it, be a loner, travel, talk to waiters, walk around, no more self-imposed agony…it’s time to think and watch and keep concentrated on the fact that after all this whole surface of the world as we know it now will be covered with the silt of a billion years in time…Yay, for this, more aloneness.” -Jack Kerouac, Big Sur
I cannot wait to go there someday.
A lot of girls say “oh, boys scare me” in the sense that they don’t know what to say or do around them, how to appear cool or pretty or whatever
and I sometimes want to yell at them—I don’t, for the record—because boys really do scare me and it’s so fucked up that a few could ruin me for the rest
but that’s where I’m at right now. Sometimes being drunk helps the fear momentarily slide away but I’m not really sure if I want it to. (I also don’t even know if I want to drink much anymore, it usually just feels like I’m poisoning myself, and that’s probably because I am)
3:14 am 1 note
I hate that chain smoking or cigarettes in general are popular as a certain type of poetic trope because I just want to write about how you make me feel (also see- how you made me feel, how you will make me feel) and for some reason I connect that with smoking.
I don’t cry over romantic or sexual situations under any circumstances. Please don’t think I’m tough, because I wish I could. I will cry about not getting the job, movies, books, death, friendships, frustration, grades, etc. like a normal person (normal people cry over most things at some point, even if they do not engage in the act regularly, I assume. But who really knows with crying and private uncomfortable practices like it). I think it is the feminist in me, or the independent girl, or the (rather large) part of me that likes to pretend outwardly that I never get rejected, or at least never in high stakes, I-think-this-is-love cases (because I pretend those cases don’t exist, even just quietly to myself).
and so I probably will not cry about you, or about this unfortunate welling up of emotions I have inside of me involving you that can sometimes make it hard to sleep at night until I anesthetize myself with orgasms or the stories of others. But you have, (indirectly of course) at least once—and you probably will do so again in upcoming months—effected a trip to a convenience store, where I bought two packs of cigarettes that I promptly smoked one after the other, like I was sucking on some infinite cancer-stick of alternating long whites and short yellows. Smoking is sort of like crying, is my theory. It satisfies the same pangs inside you, quiets the voice in your head, unrequited unrequited unrequited unrequited (even though I haven’t even tried, or asked).
You will probably end up dating one of my friends. I am okay with this. I have pictured the scenario in which one of the ephemeral she’s tells me, and the pain I will feel, and the way I will smile supportively, and the way I will not angrily mention your name when I’m drunk off cheap vodka. We are nothing alike. If you took a thousand 2-minute personality quizzes, not a single one would match you with me.
And yet. For me, all roads lead to you. And it’s pretty much always going to be awful.
2:56 am 3 notes
— Jack Kerouac, Big Sur
2:28 am 19 notes
I used to be a girl who wrote poems.
I owned this fountain of outlook, a repository of feelings.
Each touch from the world was like an electric charge, a message.
It all meant something.
I would hear words where there were none—from the ocean, birds, my dog, a certain boy or girl, God.
Now, I am so very different. And I don’t want to be.
I suppose it’s easier to be untethered
To pass through each moment without sensing its poetic implications in your bones.
It is, after all, how most people live.
They eat, they kiss, do their schoolwork, watch TV.
They don’t look at anything any longer than they must. They don’t face these ragged desires surfacing, there is no impetus or voice whispering to them, create or die, you so-called artist.
It is probably less stressful. I cry less, except when I remember than I am not creating,
and so I am dying.
It is all happening much more painfully and slowly than I would care to admit.
2:12 am 2 notes
12:30 am 98,686 notes
It’s funny how I used to write pages upon pages—endless streams of poems—about feelings and experiences I knew nothing about. Or I would capitalize upon tiny details of importance that occurred in an otherwise stagnant life. And now, things are happening to me and things have happened, and I have no words for them. It’s all super difficult to write about. I’ve lost the ability to take them apart and dissect them (or maybe it’s more appropriate to say I’m just out of practice).
7:47 pm 1 note
I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free——
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
— Sylvia Plath, excerpt from “Tulips”
3:05 pm 2 notes
— Junot Diaz
12:43 am 24,743 notes
For the next few months,
No one will touch me.
I want it to be this way, I want to extend myself like an elastic waistband addition to my jeans, I want to be further than other people
When I’m at the beach, with others, I do this thing where I pretend I’m drifting out to sea and it is fun to do this, to scare people, to be alone in the green water with seaweed hair, when I know I am getting sunburn but am “too far-gone” to care
I need to be alone. I don’t want anyone to see me naked. At parties I don’t want anything. Our interaction already bores me. Or worse than that—it distracts me.
I am lost right now, at this point in my life.
I traded in a lot of items of mine that were nonrefundable. I shouldn’t have.
Sometimes I am sexual, sometimes anyone with testosterone makes me rabid, but most of the time, these days, I am tired of all of it.
How can you be tired of people when you’ve hardly been with anyone in months?
I don’t know. But you can be.
12:43 am 1 note
Give me drugs pls
6:08 pm 1 note