holdencaulf1eld

[holdencaulf1eld]

Sagebud Searching

Sagebud Searching.

I used to pass by your old high school classroom. I’d sit in the benches that lined the yard and bask in the morning sunlight as I listened to the cicadas sing their summer refrain. My senses were always alert and alive, looking, searching, and yearning for sensations it could not name. My fingertips, it seemed, were itching to feel something that had been lost to it. What was it, you might ask. I wasn’t quite sure at the time either.

During my final visit, I finally understood.

It was a exceptionally humid day then. I looked down on my hands, the shadows of dancing leaves playing across my upturned palm. I was taken aback by the sight of it, I realized they had never looked as empty as they did that moment. Dumfounded at the futility of my conquest, I fume.

I had come to realize that all this time, I was looking for you. Hoping that I’d find a you that existed before me. Searching for pieces of you that belonged to someone else. Perhaps, I could pick up what she’d left behind and claim them as my own. The vestiges of a great unknown crippled me and I wished to pacify it, to fit it into the coloring book lines of my life.

How absolutely tragic!

The utter vanity of my wasted coup was catastrophic. Who was I to think that I could overthrow a past so great and unforgiving? What a fool I was, to think that rain could wash away. When all it ever really did was suppress.

My palms ball into a fist. I turn to leave when I notice little blue flowers that dotted the bushes. A staple in your high school’s courtyard. I unclench my fist, pluck a flower and walk away.

Now it is safe. Flowering and Evergreen. Unsullied by the rain.

[holdencaulf1eld]

Ex nihilo nihil fit

Ex nihilo nihil fit

July 12, 20xx

Dear Froggy,

I fear that I have turned into a ghost. My hands have stopped working the way they’re supposed to. Now, they’re always shaking and fidgeting as if looking for something that cannot be found or cannot be held. I don’t notice it but sometimes my nails dig into the palms of my hand. Now there are tiny scars that form to showcase my anxiety. My words escape my mouth, tumbling over each other in an attempt to make sense of things.  I feel like I am only half submerged in the tides of this life. I am almost certain that I am slipping into oblivion.

xx

July 19, 20xx

Dear Froggy,

I think I am jealous. By jealous I actually mean there is this giant green-eyed monster that is twisting and turning in its uncomfortable cradle inside of me. (also, by cradle I mean prison) Maybe, I’m taking things a little too far by calling it a monster but what difference does it make, really? 

We’ve all got monsters inside of us anyway. 

But I am getting ahead of myself with that one. 

What I really mean to say is, I am jealous.

Hold on.

Perhaps jealous is not the right term for it. It just doesn’t seem to cut it. I think maybe, I am full of resentment. There, that’s the word. Resentment. It is malevolent, vindictive, and unforgiving enough to encapsulate what I feel. But what’s new? I always have been the epitome of those words after all.

But this entry isn’t about me. It is about her. Wow, and here I thought no word could sound worse than “shit” or “moist” even “phlegm” (man, those are some really gross words) and then comes the word Her. Look at how the word drips with spiteful undercurrents and promises of tequila shots on Friday nights.

I won’t say her name because my tongue fills up with gunpowder waiting to explode.

xx

August 29, 20xx

Dear Froggy,

She says she never wants to grow up.

I guess we have that in common.

I’m sure I don’t want to grow up. But only because I’m still waiting for my bubblegum pink walls and a mother to sing me lullabies to calm the monsters in the closet.

xx

September 13, 20xx

Dear Froggy,

I wonder if her father calls her his little princess, tucks her in at night in her canopy bed as he promises her he would catch all the stars for her if she wanted and put them in a mason jar right beside her bed.

I wonder if my father thinks twice about which hand he uses to strike me.

I wonder if he looks at the marks on my face and the red rings that circle my arms and regrets every bit of it.

xx

September 24, 20xx

Dear Froggy,

There is a boy a few hundred miles away that helps with the shaking.

But he loved her first.

He loved her first.

He loved her first.

He loved her first.

xx

September 25, 20xx

Dear Froggy,

He says he doesn’t love her anymore and swears that he’s moved on.

I don’t believe a single word of it.

You can blow out a match but you can’t tame a forest fire.

xx

October 30, 20xx

Dear Froggy,  

It’s funny because whenever he describes his ideal girl he doesn’t use adjectives. Instead he whispers a name. 

Gunpowder, again. 

xx

November 12, 20xx

Dear Froggy,

They say that the most broken people are also the most beautiful.

If that is true then why is it that I feel like a thousand natural disasters

every time I compare myself to her?

xx

November 20, 20xx

Dear Froggy,

I think my palms have formed tiny nail shaped constellations.

The marks are still pinkish and in the threshold of bleeding.

xx

November 28, 20xx

Dear Froggy,

I can count the number of times my mother has uttered the words “I love you” to me in one hand. Because of this, I don’t think I ever really learned what the phrase should sound like. But what I do know is, the way she said it to me and to my father was not it. I don’t know whether it was her intonation or her pronunciation or maybe it is the way her voice sounded weary and unsure as if she was making a promise she already knew she could not keep.

I bet she knows just the way an “I love you” should sound like.

I bet they were hand picked and delivered right at her doorstep by the most careful of hands.

I bet she probably has a string of those words tapered across her bedroom wall for all the world to see.

I bet she’ll never have to live a day worrying about the sincerity of those words because she is foreign to the possibility of an unsafe “I love you”

I bet all the times my mother said I love you to me that she will always have an “I love you” waiting for her at the end of the day. But that’s a wager that isn’t worth much.

xx

December 1, 20xx

Dear Froggy,

She——-

Nope, not even gonna bother with this one.

xx

December 15, 20xx

Dear Froggy,

Today someone called me beautiful.

A little boy the age of about 4-5 asked me if I was a fairy straight from a Disney classic because he swore he saw me leave a trail of fairy dust in my wake and that he’s never seen someone who looked like they always belonged somewhere else. Somewhere better.

Today someone called me beautiful.

Yea, I’m just as confused as you are 

xx

December 17 , 20xx

Dear Froggy,

Steady. Steady. Steady.

My hands are slowly learning the art of steadiness.

xx

December 29, 20xx

Dear Froggy,

I am sitting in P’s front seat watching the pitter-patter of raindrops on his window. The scars on the insides of my hands have begun disappearing; little by little the indentations have lightened.

I turn to P and crumble at the sight of him, smiling eyes and crooked teeth.

I burst out crying, floodgates of all my uncertainties gushing out. I tell him all about the girl, my father and mother. He takes my hand and asks me to describe the color gold without saying the color itself.

I tried and laughed at the futility of it all.

He tells me that’s what its like to have me in his life, a constant battle to describe his favorite color without words.

Apparently, I am his golden girl.

He tells me I am like those crazy Friday nights and cozy Sunday mornings all rolled into one.

He tells me I am Tokyo when cherry blossoms bloom and Santorini in the summer when the sun kisses the clear blue water and docks welcome back fishermen to their wistful wives.

He told me the first time he heard me cry was the first time he understood what heartbreak felt like.

I turn away because of the utter stupidity of all his stupid analogies (and yes, i’m aware i’ve used stupid one too many times today) so I gaze out through the windowpane. He laughs, I melt into the folds of his familiarity.

He drives away, across the freeway and into the fog. I fall asleep.

Heart on my sleeves bleeding gold and blue.

December 31, 20xx

Dear Froggy,

I guess its okay that I’m a little shattered. 

I guess I have come to terms that there are people like her and then there are people like me. Relish in the dichotomy of it all. 

I guess its fine that he loved her first. After all, If P can see me this way I’m sure he can too.

I guess the world will just have to make space for a thousand separate graves because I fully intend to leave this life this fragmented.

I guess I’ll just have to face my wonderful God, resplendent in all His glory and say to him “I am nothing now. I have given every part of me away to those who needed it. This is me, stripped and bare. To dust I have returned.”

ex nihilo nihil fit

xx

[holdencaulf1eld]

Funny way to find out which plant you might like to buy.

Source: apartmenttherapy.com

[holdencaulf1eld]

[holdencaulf1eld]

When I’m married someday I want to be so in love that our kids are disgusted

[holdencaulf1eld]

Previously, I’d only seen the first two panels and assumed it was the complete comic.

This version is much better.

[holdencaulf1eld]

what the fuk u even suppose to do with ur hands while ur getting ur dick sucked

[holdencaulf1eld]

Self harm doesn’t always happen when a blade touches skin.

It’s skipping meals because you don’t feel like you deserve to eat today. It’s having sex because you want to be used or abused or defiled. It’s drinking recklessly because you might have the ‘courage’ do something stupid. It’s smoking - not because you need the nicotine - because you know it’s bad for you. It’s banging your head against a wall when you’re angry. It’s crossing the road without looking because you lowkey hope a car might hit you. It’s thinking about all the ways you could break a bone and make it look like an accident. It’s not taking painkillers because you want to suffer. It’s taking painkillers in excess because you know it’s dangerous. It’s walking home the more dangerous way because you’re kind of half hoping you’ll get attacked or raped or stabbed. It’s going for long walks at night and getting chilled to the bone and hoping that you get lost so that you can’t find your way back. It’s seeking out triggering material. It’s all the stupid little ways you punish yourself for existing.

Sometimes self harm happens when you put effort into depriving yourself of things you like or need, and sometimes it happens when you don’t put any effort into doing the things you like or need.

It’s a pattern of self-destructive behaviour, and it doesn’t only happen in one way.

[holdencaulf1eld]

When you’re in the middle of sobbing and you start dissociating so you’re like “okay I’m done now” and turn into an emotionless zombie

[holdencaulf1eld]

me to mother earth: we totally deserve what’s coming to us but are you ok

[holdencaulf1eld]

[holdencaulf1eld]

my whole life is the one episode of Friends where Ross drinks all those margaritas and keeps telling everyone that hes fine when he clearly isn’t fine

[holdencaulf1eld]

Never look down on anybody unless you’re helping him up.

[holdencaulf1eld]

[holdencaulf1eld]

[holdencaulf1eld]

Even if you come home late and I’m already asleep, just whisper in my ear one little thought you had today. Because I love the way you look at the world. And I’m so happy I get to be next to you and look at the world through your eyes.

Theodore Twombly, Her (via suspend)

[holdencaulf1eld]

Filling out course evaluations for classes you did shitty in