#writingwhore

[psychedelic-ink]

i accidentally read your header as ‘writingwhore’ now i want to crawl into a deep hole and die 🤣🤣

I feel like that would be more accurate with my blog dfbvfgb

ALSO speaking of writingwhore might as well mention that there's a blog that I follow named the same @writing-wh0re 💗💗💗

[swallowgold]

Why not fall back?

I know what I am capable of, I know my parents know, I know my teachers know too. I can achieve so much, I could and I can do anything. But you see when you live by a silly phrase 'all or nothing' failure, at least the idea of failure becomes so strong, so powerful that there is no point in trying, even if the chance of failure is miniscule.

I wished for such great things, but now, if I make it through the year it will be a miracle. 

I could be the best, I could have it all, rule the worlds above our ground. I could be fantastic, and they could all know my name, but what if? What if I fail? What if I get a B instead of an A, that is far too great a drop, that  is far too shattering, so if I can't be certain I'll be the best, then I suppose I shall have to be the worst.

Knowing that I can be good, and successful, yet still turning to drugs and alcohol, and missing my lessons and cycling back into depression, falling deeper and deeper, and purging, and knowing that I am ruining everything and that I don't truly want this, but if I can't have it all, then I will have to be content with having nothing, with losing every hope and dream I ever had.

Now that is just sad.

And I know this, I'm aware I am more or less purposely jeopardizing my life, and I don't want that, but I'd rather have that then fail.

[swallowgold]

What makes me happy? The cold. Those early October nights, where the skies have grown dark by 7PM, and you can wonder the streets in that cool crisp chill that consumes your whole body. Those late evening teas that warm the soul, yet as comforting as the hot liquid which has set up home withing your stomach may be, it's the coldness outside that make it all so blissful. The freezing air comes along, and sends nature back home, all the leaves fall from treas and birds fly out delaying their capture by the cold air. The cold that swoops in with the hopeful silent whispers of the snow that shall decent from the skies in merely a few months, covering the ground we walk in tiny white snowflakes.

[swallowgold]

I think it's the silence that scares me the most, I crave it so much but it is a terrifying fairy tale. 'The silence' it's calm and it's nice, the silence is over me as I type, but I worry, and fidget and my anxiety ridden little head knows something is up, silence doesn't simply come for nothing, it's like a warning sign, enjoy the silence now; soon a wind will pick you up and take you for a spin.

[swallowgold]

And so I'll kiss those metal taps and let the coppers stain my tongue, and we will dance and sings in our silent ways, and then those bloody waves will drown.

[swallowgold]

One tiny cold drop, shivering down my spine, it's sharp edged corners slowly digging into my skin, grabbing my vertebrae and weeding me of movement. So cold and still and silent, a second gone in your world, for me years of this to endure. Inside my head bats shriek and fight, and all is a dark and gloomy night, where sun had died and all good has gone. And in my heart the apple seed I swallowed has sprouted out it's roots, encased my heart, it's branches replacing my rib cage and it's fruit decaying my alveoli. And all so cold, so very bitter, although my mouth is laughing and little notes keep flying out, they show that life exists in me, but then my eyes they spill such waters, drowning birds and all those bugs. But so I laugh and smile and sit here, and with the biggest grin I say ' But he doesn't love me ' what else is there to do?

[swallowgold]

But he doesn't love me and everything is washed away of colour, I want sweet things and flowers but all is covered in a white paste, so thick and sticky and nothing matters. Oh but I want the warmth in the winter days, the coffee and the smoke, for it all to be wrapped in ribbons, but all remains white, nasty white that swallows colour, swallows those beautiful petite daisies on the windowsill.

He doesn't love me, and we've both grown and changed and swapped sides, he's moved on and I've only just caught up to the past. I can't stop the exchange of words between us, I must feel the pain; karma.

He doesn't love me, and tears do not fall anymore, nor do I wish for anything true. I could be content with spending my days sitting still in a field, alone.

[swallowgold]

No, perhaps I was wrong yet again, I'll take a step back, and then another one and creep behind the gates, further back, back into the woods and there I shall hide. Words are wasted every day, my words are wasted far too often, and so I'll go back. I'll stop  talking, I'll try to keep it to a minimum, and then I'll be alone again.

I'm growing, I'm sick and I'm aware and I'm growing, I can feel my brain being aware of the age, aware of how things are not right and I cannot simply hide behind my own lies anymore. It stings to pull away, but it stings and hurts, and stabs me to stay and continue on.

I don't want anything right now, perhaps maybe to lay in snow and die.. that does sound nice. Well maybe not die, just lay there in snow and freeze for a bit, and sleep, and rest finally.

[swallowgold]

Perhaps I ought to write, but the only subject I wish to discuss is him, and when I do things seem to go horribly wrong.

But I suppose it has been a while since I meant my words on here, since I opened up a door and let you guys have a peak at the life I lead. Perhaps we all live in different universes, we all exist, but simply different versions of life. Wouldn't that be nice?

We shan't be together, me and him I mean, at least I don't think we will. A simple feeling of loss I suppose is the best way to describe it. I know I have lost him and I know I want him, but everything is calm, because this is simply the way things are and there isn't anything I can do to change that.

Could we remain friends, but I want his arms around me, I want him to keep me warm and kiss me. Hm, perhaps we will always have that, we will always have our kisses and our hugs but that is all. I'm sure I'll drift away again, I'm sure we'll stop speaking and before you know it he will be off, gone, take by life to start his journey, to start his own life not attached to his birthplace.

I wish I could tell you I'm well, but I'm rather ill, both physically with the flu and mentally. Although, I'm back to denial, back to completely ignoring my interaction between different worlds.

They fly around those little dust particles, too small to see, but they are here, and they touch you and hug you and kiss you and you don't even realise.

[swallowgold]

I want a stained yellow wall. The yellow once was so incredibly loud, you could walk into a room and only get a glimpse of the colour but it would scream and shout and it would ask you  how you were with it's big grin. Now the yellow is dirty and faded, with spilled coffee sleeping on it, and dents from the plates that we threw at it that Thursday morning when we drunk to much and decided to stay up all night and thought that it would be a good idea to smash the only plates we had because we were to lazy to wash them.

I want that wall to be the background. I want to stack up jars against it, big jars, jars the size of my head; little jars, no bigger than my pinky and fill them, fill them with memories. A piece of the duvet cover from the day when we first had sex, grass in water from that time when we drunk too much to make it back home so we slept in the park. I want leaves, and flowers, and jars with water and glitter, and jars with fairies, and with a feather from the time our cat first brought us back a treat, and the lace from your shoe that time I tied up your shoes together and you tripped, and the cap from our first expensive wine to celebrate moving in together, and the tears from our first fight, and the plane tickets from our trip together, and my favourite CD which you broke because you were mad at me because I said some things I didn't mean and pages from the books I love, and I want them all covering the wall, stacked up and looking messy and dirty and most of the things inside them would have decayed and died but that's okay, because they are memories and it would be so pretty.

[swallowgold]

I very often stop, in the middle of everything to see, to simply listen and make sure that I am still far enough away and not back in reality. Summers used to awaken me fully, I would hear and see, literally my vision would improve so much and I could feel and touch reality. The past two years with no breaks. It's strange, I try and explain to myself how is this different? But it is something you can simply feel; instinct perhaps. The tiny little dots that constantly chase each other in front of the objects. I can't get glasses to aide something that has been create by my brain. But it's strange how if even for a tiny moment you find yourself not seeing the dots, or hearing everything ever so clearly, you panic, you drop everything and panic, because as much as you hate this fuzzy world you've been captured in, it's all you know. Therefore, I cannot be conscious if I want a change. I need a magic man to wash it all away and fairy tales aren't true. I hate to say it, to admit such things but I'm no better, not in the slightest, and oh how winter is coming, marching with its large thick boots, drumming it's drum, ever so loud, ever so disturbing. Winter is coming and I do not mean the snow or the cold weather, winter is coming, the darkness, the constant darkness is laying it's nest inside my head.

[swallowgold]

Living in the night is so wonderful. You are not bothered by the suns sweat, or the masses of people with their itty bitty feet, walking around in such a hurry. You do not have the troubles of work or school pushing you forwards, overcoming you and watching it all run away from you as you remain behind it all. At night you simply live in the moment, time seems to tick away but it feels as if the world has paused for a second. And oh what I would give to hold your hand and walk down those hallways at night, with the moon and the stars and the silence around. At night I have the energy for speech, to walk and talk and simply exist, but everyone is asleep or inside or too drunk to appreciate such a thing as the life of the night.

Daylight can die for all I care, I sleep in an unconscious state when the sun is present, at night I awake but despite the companionship of the trees and the silence everyone is gone. Oh how sad it is, how truly wrong it is, that we all have set times for sleep and life, and how I wish I could just sleep my days and live my nights, with a body by my side.

[swallowgold]

We'll die again, tonight, once more, we'll drink the red, the gold and the clear, we shall laugh in slow motion, watch the pretty lights sparkle in the darkness, we'll cross a bridge, and sing a song, we'll see the stars, and then we'll die. We'll die again tonight, yes, we shall. And then the poison will have cleared, the sun will rise and we'll be new, shiny and clean we'll be reborn.

[swallowgold]

Mornings seem to shake you out of life, wake you from the crazy sleep, where you live in worlds where you can be anything, you can be it all. And the you wake, and the tragic sadness sets in, the confusion, of whether the dream was a dream, I can't distinguish what's real.

Exams, limit your brain, answer a sheet to be told if you're good enough for life. My blood is still intoxicated from the night before, though with the sun still down, resting her head, it still is the night for me, so should I sleep? I'd rather watch my skin opened by knives, and who thought that knives sleep in the day, wake only in the dark, when the sky matches our souls.

Sins, surrounded, drowning in sins, a cheater and a whore, a liar is all I own. Words that describe my body and mind, conscious decisions I make without thoughts of others involved now.

[swallowgold]

Escaped life by surrendering to a world without time, where time can't pass, can't swallow up the present and make the future a brighter place, where nothing shifts, nothing gets better nor worse. Simply breathing, simply walking along the wet trashed pavement.

Pick up a needle, jam it into your eye hope for an infection, hope for a death. Useless and weak, and all battered and frail, dragging, breathing out last breaths. You still won't die. This body still won't fucking die.

[swallowgold]

My insides hurt. To me I picture the inside of my soul a disgusting and dirty rotten swamp. A horrible dark place covered in soggy green slime. Weepy trees, puke green leaves. No live, not even the tress are alive, they’re long dead slowly decaying, but not even maggots live in this horrid place.