#molassesdrops

[ellensurrey]

What’s your favorite holiday cookie? In order; Gingerbread, Chocolate Crinkle, Jam Thumbprint, Molasses Drops, Mexican Wedding, Peppermint Meltways, Rum Balls, Rainbow Cookies, Sugar Cookies, Rugelach For @wineenthusiast Thanks Julia! #illustration #digitalart #cookies #holidaycookies #gingerbread #chocolatecrinklecookies #jamthumbprintcookies #molassesdrops #mexicanweddingcookies #peppermentmeltaways #rumballs #rainbowcookies #sugarcookies #rugelach #cute #retro #classic #vintage #ellensurrey #wineenthusiast https://www.instagram.com/p/CX9M7xGv-3T/?utm_medium=tumblr

[molassesdrops-blog]

“Crystallized Memory”

About 15 minutes into my drive home from work, or a few hairs past midnight, or even in my shower thoughts I think about our conversations- the jokes and smiles and sweetness.

As time passes these memories almost seem like dreams, did they really happen? Did you really come over to talk to me that day? It could be a figment of my imagination, crystallized in reality.

I really like you, and I like to think this affection is unique but it could be inflated and distorted, especially with our obscure interactions drifting not away but to be preserved for my eyes only.

I must reason to talk to you, to come by, casually as if by accident heaven forbid I mean to purposely speak to you. All part of this game with unspoken rules and no clear winner.

I truly believe all mix CDs, if they are made in earnest, are love notes. We've exchanged a few. And I have them, I can hold them in my hands, they are in my car for safe keeping, they are real. They serve as evidence to myself, when I try to reconcile whether or not you showed care for me.

Every work day presents an opportunity to see you and talk nonchalantly as if I don't care in order to follow imaginary rules of how to make people like you. Completely self-defeating in nature, I can't be sure I will have any more memories of us that are not old flirtations seen through rose-colored crystal.

[molassesdrops-blog]

"Adulthood I"

When you imagine yourself growing up you think that you will build knowledge up and down like throwing clay on the wheel slowly shedding clay until your piece matures

But I feel as though my growth into adulthood leaves more questions than answers with every new experience comes an improved ability to heal but a depreciated sense of understanding

Love, which was maybe a theory, has become an urban legend there doesn't seem to be a formula or anyway of knowing what I want or what will happen

And yet I feel like I see it all coming like a car crash in slow motion self-sabotage manipulation over attachment sadness badness madness

Then I meet someone new and pretend he's different and that my past is like a bad cartoon episode that I can laugh off "what were the writers thinking?!"

[molassesdrops-blog]

“Search for Pain”

Your mind like a contained wildfire I wish I had even the pilot light of you I feel like we see each other like long lost twins or two kids in two different cars seeing each other on the freeway wondering where the other is going wanting our lives to be more similar than different

I think of you always the thought throbs like a giant mosquito bite and if I scratch too hard I might break flesh but the rush of blood under the bump and the flaky, powdery circumference of skin draws me near

I want to know everything about you every pain you've felt and the most profound thing you've seen in this life I want to know why you like art the way you do and why I've never met someone who sees eye to eye with me until now and how I can even achieve a thirst for emotional knowledge such as yours

I am nervous that I will ruin something that I will be a diversion, not of pleasure, but of frivolity if we had something it would inevitably lead to nowhere and not last and not mean anything in a few years except we'll have the memory of it getting awkward at work when we got coffee the day after sleeping together or something

But a shred of me hopes that our similar interests don't just extend to the 2-D names we namedrop like trading and collecting baseball cards but show the dim light of some kind of shared intelligence and search for a pain and growth that can only be ignited by us trying something scary

[molassesdrops-blog]

“Driving in a Heatwave”

Self hatred induced by the self centered Does he know what he’s doing?

My voice, quiet as a church mouse, just as it was in childhood musicals, when I was forced to shout in order for my teacher to leave me alone and silence my internal embarrassing scream. He reduces me to a prepubescent age, I cant be heard over the sound of his ego-- or his demos he plays at full blast on my stereo.

At the end of the never-ending vacation I want to break. Tears roll down my cheek, they dry up with the empathizing heatwave. 

The tears are covered by his monolithic iphone, he cannot pry from his eyes. He challenges himself by seeing how many seconds he can bear not looking at it-- about 2 --I dont know if I’m happy I’m hidden, or in hell because he doesn’t recognize his girlfriend, who drove the entire weekend, is crying less than a foot away from him.

The flood comes. The surge of self hating sentiments. Do i know what I’m doing? I cannot believe I let myself give more than I have What would be called “too much” or “grand gestures.”

I don’t want reparations disguised as thank-you’s. I want something that is too late to give, and is built with a structure of attention and willful consideration,

And all i keep asking is Why do I let myself fall into this pattern again? I falter harder every time.

It gets harder to keep a straight face when tears rolls down like sweat and my face is as stone cold and distant as it ever was. He either cannot see or denies what he sees.

I stop at an old ‘50s cafe, the kind that leaves gum with the check, and forbids dancing on tables. I hope the unchanged scene will put my mind at ease. He and I get cows, one black one brown, I pay for both. I compare the desire for ice cream to raising children, sweet in thought and pretense and sickeningly regretful once complete

We continue on. My face is dry. I’ve convinced him I’m happy The rolling scenarios of breaking down in front of him-- ruining his day, confessing I am here and have concerns, opening the possibility that perhaps I’m “too boring” for him, or serious, or sensitive-- are packed away tightly. The overstuffed closet is closed when you put your shoulder in it.

He leaves when we arrive. Maybe he saw a glimpse of what lurked in the closet, but I disregard his attempt to thank me just like I disregarded his initial move toward romance.

It took negotiation to agree to this partnership.

Appearing half-hearted due to cowardice is not tolerated, I need more than a thought for it to count.