enjoying-the-act-of-dying - Tumblr blog

[enjoying-the-act-of-dying]

I am no more then Sisyphus staring at his boulder when I look at the life in front of me

[enjoying-the-act-of-dying]

You are exposure therapy for the anxiously attached soul

For I know through your sweet nothings and your distant passions that I matter

Yet the burdens of adulthood, the monotony of work, and the trauma of it all pull you from me

To you my avoidantly attached love, I only hope to provide exposure therapy to trust

[enjoying-the-act-of-dying]

My mother once said I prefer things that others have touched. When I asked her what she meant she answered “You can afford new furniture but you insist on thrift store finds. You prefer your books with their spines cracked and smudged annotations on the page. If you had to choose between the softest blanket you’d ever felt but it was just bought or the scratchy one with pulling threads that has that a friend you have never met made me years ago, you’d choose the the ones that would itch your skin as you slept. You my dear hunt down things with stories behind them especially stories you will never know.”

[enjoying-the-act-of-dying]

I am not art because I refuse to be empty. Art while beautiful is still and singular. I am pain and joy. I am the child like glee of seeing the first snow fall of the year. I am the peace of a warm cup of early grey tea and a good book. I am the anger of a girl made to grow up to fast while watching her male peers get to stay young. I am my best friends smile when told an inside joke. I am a grateful parents tired expression when their child’s tears are stopped by a kind gesture. I am the unending sadness of knowing what once was will never be again. I am the hopefulness of believing that the number of nostalgic memories I wish to live in will multiply each day. I am not art. I do not belong in a museum where years from now people will marvel at me behind glass. I am not art because there is to much of me to be contained by paint on canvas, hands on clay, or ink on paper, and I am much better for it.

you are too much like art to be empty

[enjoying-the-act-of-dying]

We are dying from the moment we are born. I for one wish to enjoy the act of dying.