davyjournals

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I love them. I love this

weird animals

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Omar Ziyadeh, “Nobody Can Identify Their Own Remains, and I Am Unable to Identify My Own” (tr. from Arabic by Alice S. Yousef) [ID’d]

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The gang's all here

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I am a morning person, however, I am not a morning socializer. I can have many very pleasant early mornings on my own. Me being irritable is about your presence, not the time of day.

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Merry Christmas @neil-gaiman !

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*after dropping something into an ungodly crevice of my car* well that better be plot relevant later on

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Scarf

Today I saw a boy wearing a scarf, the same scarf as in 6th period, freshman French. There's only one. I recognize him here, walking to our separate senior courses, the distance between the last words we spoke wider in the cold March. I turn my head and catch sight of myself in the glassy, volcanic doors, hair dark and chopped, pants too loose and soul spinning at my collarbone. I think of myself in freshman French and spend the rest of the day wondering how the past four years could have remade me, broken me down and given me a center, lit something inside my ribcage and flung me headlong down the westward path of my Life while still, he wears that scarf, a sloping comma, a breath in his steady river of existence.

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Sink

I like to soak up bad things when they come, discomfort, disdain. I like to soak them in like I'm saying full! I'm full! I bit the dust, I absorbed the blow - please don't come after me, this time with teeth, please don't sink me like I know you can, please don't leave stones in my open bag.

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Endings

While I sleep, the world ends. Each night, apocalypses and armageddons fall into each other like puzzle pieces, flipping and mixing and scattering, thousands of colors and patterns. They are all layered now, they are not individual. They will all fit and they will all break again.

I cannot explain why these definite ends keep coming. Is it a comfort, the way they parody themselves endlessly? I can step over their repetitive plotlines, horrifying as they may be, safe knowing that whatever finale that has just played in my head will not be the last.

Maybe it is narcissism. Maybe I cannot stand a quiet death, surrendering to the mundane love that I have been running from for a lifetime. Maybe I want to be running when it ends. When the sky blackens, it does so for everyone. Only the ending of the world could be the ending of me.

Maybe I am lonely. Maybe the thought of me, alone, slipping silent into the afterlife, sends me hurtling towards zombies, towards fires, to be numbed by a panic that we carry together.

I dream of the end. In sleep, I fight the disease, the swarm, the great flood; I rest, and never awake with a gasp. The tendrils of fear do not feel their way through my mouth and into my bedroom. The end of the world has never been a nightmare.