eayra-exe

[eayra-exe]

Godhood, is a fleeting thought.

I'm seventeen, leaning on the window pane, looking at the nothingness of the vast nightsky. The stars wink at me and I'm not flooded with awe this time. I suddenly come to notice my hands that I know not what to do with. I try to choke my throat but then stop abruptly. I'm longing for the sky to crumble at my lap.

I am handed a destiny that i fold in and shove inside my backpocket. I walk years only to stumble across the ghosts of my childhood. There's no escape. I'm here to carve my skin and make artefacts out of it. But I do not know what to do with my hands.

Godhood is knowing how it all ends, yet making insignificant and held-back actions in hopeful terror that it might make a difference.

Doesn't that sound too much like manhood though?

Godhood, perhaps, isn't just the extreme whites of the morality palette or the zeros of a binary.

Godhood, perhaps, thrives in the plateau of willingness to act and be taken aback by the absurdity of the meaningless actions.

He created us to save him from his loneliness but we're wallowing infront of him to rescue us from his creation.

I think God spends his afternoons looking down on us with deliberate anticipation that we might move mountains or crawl out of the world to save him from his fate.

But here I sit, looking up at the nightsky with a desperate yearning for him to climb down and save me from mine.

Well, God and Man, I believe, are one forceful scream into the void, hoping to hear an echo but the silence screams back.

We both do not know what to do with our hands.

[eayra-exe]

Ansel Adams :- When words become unclear, I shall focus with photographs. When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence.

Mitch Albom :- Why are we embarrassed by silence? What comfort do we find in all the noise?

R. Arnold :- So, if you are too tired to speak, sit next to me for I, too, am fluent in silence.

Kavya Dixit :- I like silence, for I've learned that not everyone who listens to you can understand your soul.

Sarah Dessen :- Silence is so freaking loud.

Jordan B. Peterson :- When you have something to say, silence is a lie.

[eayra-exe]

it isn't that i'm godless or supremely powerful. but there's a black dog in my heart. i picked him up from the library and stashed him under my childhood bed. he grew strong in the shadows, living off of my dread. in the bitter hours when it is only the moon and i, the black dog goes walking; his eyes all blue flash in the starlight. stalking at my heels. quiet, patient, reserved. the black dog is not a warrior, not a great wheel of fire - but he is not small, either. and he is good at waiting.

i have spent a life in a flinch. i am tender and i am trying constantly to be perfect. i am an error of a person. i am scattered over my floor. i stumble away; i have no home. i would rip my seams for a single note of love; i set no boundaries and claim no needs. i let others take whatever they want from me.

the black dog puts his head under my hand. he noses my little carcass over every morning. he pushes his body against the back of my legs, gets me to stand and start walking. the black dog makes sure i eat. he stands at the corner of the room, watching.

i spend months locked in a shiver. i expect no one to see me as dangerous. even i don't take myself seriously. there is nothing particularly special about my existence.

but once in a while, the black dog remembers the darkness; where i have fed him every memory and scrap of my innocence. the black dog remembers what it took to get out of the rabbit snare. the black dog remembers how long we have been trudging.

when it is too much. when she tells me what her boyfriend did. when my house is full of yelling. when the dark gets slippery and a man at a bus stop whistles and follows me. in that moment, the black dog curls into me. up my throat. out of my teeth. the partner to my won survival: the welcome warmth of a true and patient fury.

in that moment, love. the black dog howls through me. the word is not-quite feral. something raw, undulating, less pretty. something like - i have been stalked and hurting and hungry all these years of my life.

and now it's time to go out hunting.

[eayra-exe]

write bad poetry. 

wrap your mouth into a cliche. write about icarus, write about roses. write about the flowers in your ribs and the stain of your fingertips and the skin of your knees. write about cigarettes and getting high and kissing the wrong person. and space; write about space over and over in sixty iterations of it, write about star-blood and star-crossed and star-glowing, write about universes and galaxies and gladiators in constellations. write about the space between two people in a small room, write about the space that is too small no matter how big it is, write about the space that is too big no matter how small it is. write yourself a star and eat it, tinfoil-tasting, on the floor of your kitchen, while you regret missing your mother’s cooking. but write it.

write ugly. use too many undercase letters because you’re pretentious. USE ONLY CAPITAL LETTERS BECAUSE YOU’VE GOT A SCREAM TRAPPED UNDER YOUR FINGERNAILS. ,, cut & paste grammar (? who gives a shit ?) ,, r3inv3nt so much u come back 2 l33t speak, dial it down a bit. write in the language of flaubert, then dickens, then the language your father used before he learned english. then write the language of talking to your dog, then write the language of high school essays on books you never finished. utilize the word utilize where it don’t belong. fall in and out of love with contractions. accidentally become bukowski for a hot sec, grow out of it. 

write things you wish you hadn’t. write stuff so bad you can’t help groaning. write things that end in “a;sljflk jfg h” because they petered out while you were typing. write things that feel childish and use so much rhyme it throws you out of it. write things that feel grown-up and unfamiliar, too formal to function, up-their-own-asses. write things too enigmatic; forget what you wrote them about, but tell yourself it’s for the best. write things too obvious. go through a micro-poetry spell, go through a prose-poetry spell, fish the bottom of the box for x-ray goggles and write about how the cereal felt. write about your cat and the rug and un-deep fake-deep terrible stuff.

write things you really wish you hadn’t. stuff that hurts to read and hurts to look at later, stuff that makes your skin uncomfy and your body crawl. write stuff that looks better at the back of your closet. but stuff you can’t get rid of, really, not ever. stuff that, afterwards, makes you feel heavier. stuff that somehow, impossibly, kinda makes you lighter.

write about stuff you don’t really understand, write about social problems you barely experience, write about slam poetry. write about power outlets, write in the style of internet poets, write frost-length sonnets on how pink her lips are. 

write bad. write worse. write bottom-of-the-barrel, and then keep scraping it. keep digging in it. god, how many people are too scared of being bad that they just. never get around to it. that they never even start doing it. what if all they have to say is silly shit about lost love or greek myths or a good kiss. what if they’re bad at it.

be bad at it. do you know how fucking rebellious and wonderful that truly, i mean truly is? and that’s poetry, man. the act of being so vulnerable, you’re willing to completely suck at it. big ideas in small boxes. it takes a long time before you get the packaging to fit. 

go write bad poetry. i can’t wait to read it.

[eayra-exe]

//stuck in my own paradox//

[eayra-exe]

cant talk rn, im doing hot girl shit 💅🥴

[eayra-exe]

Hawaiian shirts and art are a good combo

[eayra-exe]

[eayra-exe]

i am addicted addicted addicted addicted to anything that distracts me. i cannot deal with my own thoughts, memories, emotions. i dont want to think about myself or my life or anything at all related to me. 

[eayra-exe]

i would love you endlessly, desperately, vividly. i would not die for you, but live for you. i would gift you my youth, my old age, an entire life spent on your lips-

if it came to it, i'd have you die first. i'd give you a hand to hold onto, a smile to gaze upon. if i were allowed, i'd give you the sound of sunrise, the smell of blue skies, the taste of fresh rain. if i were allowed i'd place the world in your hands - no piece for my own, your awed eyes enough to sate my need for beauty.

i would love you wholly, intensely, carefully. i would paint the sky with new stars, if i could, for us to look at, your head on my chest.

[eayra-exe]

Repost

OC

[eayra-exe]

[eayra-exe]

I'm not screaming. You are!

Persephone: My food’s too hot I can’t eat it.

Hades: You’re too hot but I still eat you.

Persephone:

Demeter:

[eayra-exe]

Persephone, jokingly: I should have Hades kill you for that.

Hades, peering around the corner: Who do I need to kill?

Persephone: Wh- no, I was just kidding around.

Hades, pulling out a switchblade: No, who’s bothering you?

[eayra-exe]

And they'll be like 'Ok Grandpa Z'

In 50 years kids will be failing tests about the times we’re living in

[eayra-exe]

#aesthetic #sad #teen #depression