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I ATE A BIG BAG OF FACTORY REJECT SEEDS UNTIL A HEALTHY FLOWER UNFURLED IN MY CHEST ...

I MISTOOK THE SENSATION FOR LOVE AND DIED.

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masquerading, moonlighting, mimicking

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I AM THE IDIOT WITH THE PAINTED FACE IN THE CORNER TAKING UP SPACE

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i am sitting on my bed (a child’s bed) in my room (a child’s room), and across from my bed is an office chair (a father’s chair), too large to tuck into my desk (a child’s desk). my keyboard (it has no age or title) has no stool to sit at, so to practice, i roll the office chair (a father’s chair) over to sit in front of it. but the office chair (a father’s chair) is too short (maybe the piano is asking for maturity instead of an age or a title) and so i sit on my knees (i know they’re mine, at least) on top of the office chair (my father’s chair). but i am not practicing, now. i am sitting on my bed (a child’s bed) in my room (a child’s room), staring out at the balcony (a sign of success) and trying to ignore the office chair (my chair)

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this is a bit more of a diary entry, if i can write a public diary entry (‘if i can’ meaning both ‘if i am allowed to’ and ‘if it is possible’). when i was 5 or 6, or 6 or 7, or 7 or 8 (i can’t remember) there was a flash flood exhibit at the science museum. every 30 minutes, water’d come crashing down from between manufactured rocks (us safe behind a glass, of course) and kids would squeal and scream and ooh at it. every time i visited, i’d be damned if i didn’t get to sit there patiently for hours just to listen to it. when it came, i’d close my eyes and listen to it rush past my ears & spray me gently & incite a breeze and for a moment i’d forget that it was trying to teach me it could kill

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t. textposts a. art p. photos r. reblogs s. things i post or reblog to save & expand on later ql. quotes & lyrics red string. original posts cacophonous. asks & other misc. talk brown paper bag. posts that are packed messily and portray incomplete or abstract ideas saran wrap. posts that are packed neatly and portray complete or concrete ideas lunchable. posts that aren’t packed at all (read: i’m dumb and can’t figure out how to tag them) tupperware. posts that bounce around inside my skull when i shake my head bottled water. posts that give me visceral reactions

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sewing buttons to our eyes is old news, last year’s trend, let’s all sew buttons to our breasts and put the needles back into our eyes (a reminder)

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(source)

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This is Where it Ends, Mats Tusenfot, 2012

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*clink clink clink clink clink clink clink clink clink clink clink clink* “brrr……sure is wet and windy out….” *adjusts my waterproof cloak made of terracotta roof tiles tighter and keeps walking* *clink clink clink clink clink clink clink clink clink clink clink clink*

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☁️😢

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i had a dream that left me off-put in the morning but i couldn’t remember anything about it until now, and even now all i can remember is:

1 2 3 4, i declare a thumb war; wrap my arm around your neck, choke you ‘til you’re out of breath

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in that moment before my mind can intercept any thought my brain has (and the mind and brain are different things) and label it unhelpful or unproductive or incoherent, who am i to deny my body the right of instinct and reflex. in that moment when i do something without a second thought of its usefulness or productivity, who am i to attempt to undo it, to say stop, to say no, to delete, to start over. how could i know better than my body does, and knowing i couldn’t, how could i pretend i do

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mmmmmm orange in the brain

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i’d like to rock the connector of the iphone charger back and forth, to bury it into my wrist, to fill my body with charge (any kind of charge) (how long would i have to wait?) (would i hear a ping?) (would it ring deep in my skull?) (i promise this is not self harm, this is me running love and energy directly into my veins) would it let me know i’m finally full after always running on 10 percent 8 percent 5 percent 2 percent (or maybe it’d just be life support) (iphone chargers are made to break when you start to take them for granted) i’m a little terrified it’d keep me stuck at 2 percent for the rest of my life

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𓅓𓆙𓀬𓆈𓃗𓃱𓀡𓅷𓆏𓃰𓄁𓃠𓅿𓃟𓀿𓃒𓂉𓅰

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god calls me on the payphone, tells me there aren't enough magnolia trees in the garden. asks me a question. i spend my whole life answering it.