thisismorgan - Tumblr blog

[thisismorgan]

my only only goal now is to get what i want. this was my childhood dream and the only thing i ever really cared about. i can’t believe i put it off for so long that i forgot about it. anything that gets in the way has to be sacrificed. i need to focus. i was never going to live forever and i’ve already killed a lot of time.

[thisismorgan]

[thisismorgan]

ibuprofen is a type of angel that can live inside a bottle in your house

[thisismorgan]

about monsters and nature

[thisismorgan]

well what if the world was beautiful pt 382427

[thisismorgan]

feels very odd how little i am afraid of men these days. i no longer feel responsible for what men want from me. i bend forward at a ninety degree angle if i have to now, i don’t care who’s in the room with me. i used to shake if a man dared to speak to me in a dark parking lot (to be fair, they should know better) with rage but now i just give him two cigarettes and light one for myself when i get in my car. when one says something suspicious to me i just take it at face value and move on. i didn’t even realize i had made this change until i saw the reactions of women around me. i must look naive but i feel the opposite. or like, it’s a purposeful naivety, cause who knows, you know? men are predictable, but there are still people out there living strange, incommunicable lives and i feel the urge to protect them. i want to make space for them. i want it to be possible, i think only i can control that. cause i am one of them. and when i hear my coworkers speaking them out of existence i hear myself pronounced dead to them. whatever my name may be, they will only reach for the nearest explanation and no further. they don’t want to believe in complication. in nightfall. in love. in magic. i exist more in these places than anywhere else. not necessarily out of choice, but here i am. so i’m not worried about asking for it anymore. about getting it. about the wide eyes and shaking heads. about feeling younger than my age and dumber than i look. about being put in the lowest role the world can make you feel: the victim, the dirt. so i don’t lock my car door so obsessively. i let my windows roll down. so i become a victim in one moment, in one context. so what. the sun comes up in the morning and it’s a whole new day. there are infinite aspects to my life, not just one or two. maybe i die, okay, let’s be real—you can’t live like death is in your control. that’s a miserable prison. i was in there and i got really really sick and bored of it. so i just don’t feel the fear the way i used to, i don’t know. i’m not ashamed to die.

[thisismorgan]

“Leisure, Hannah, Does Not Agree With You,” Hannah Gamble

[thisismorgan]

[thisismorgan]

[thisismorgan]

i meet my past self, running and laughing in the playground. i should say something encouraging, because she has it tough and she’s just a little girl—but i’m overcome with envy. i tell her— “you’ll never be this free again.” she runs faster. i get back in my car and i drive faster. it’s not a good story, but i love the sunset harder. death and all its minor minions wait around some random corner. i turn the volume up. i sing louder. i look at passing faces hungrier. i have questions and i ask them quicker. it’s not a bad story, but it doesn’t get better. i sit stiller. i listen harder.

[thisismorgan]

the trouble with me is i’m not ashamed to die.

[thisismorgan]

i can’t say anything for certain but there’s one thing i know a hundred times over: words are nothing. language is worthless. the language center of your brain is wasted space, it’s a warehouse filled with placeholders. words have never been anything but distraction. communication has always taken place between the eyes. understanding has always happened between the bodies. the development of language represents something having gone horribly wrong. since when could we not believe what we could see? since when did we want to deny what is? what trauma, what disaster befell the human animal and hooked the tongue (which has always belonged to the stomach) up to the brain? what devil arrived on earth? hebrews worship the Word. i don’t know. if the word ever had a purpose it was to be destroyed. if the word is the beginning then none of this is real. and it’s the tension what keeps the world from furling back into itself. i don’t know. but i know it a hundred times over. language is what fills the gape of doubt. words are nothing. flinch. laugh relief. stutter breath. water slide. salt lick. sweet eye. touch to touch. ear to ear. lick to lick. a poem is an assault on itself. an apocalypse is a world under its own attack. a girl cuts through her skin to remember herself. a poem can’t remember what it forgot, at first. what it forgot was blood. blood tastes good to us.

[thisismorgan]

[thisismorgan]

life tastes better when you lick it off your fingers.

[thisismorgan]

this apocalypse is like being swallowed whole, and some of us are begging for teeth.

[thisismorgan]

punk is dead. punk lived one short, gorgeous, honest life and then it died. stop trying to resurrect it. if you want to change, change more than your clothes. (fucking posers)

punk is dead. punk is a shelter for your cowardice. for you desires and your self fearing failures. punk was never what it wanted to be, except once, except the first time. except the original that inspired all the rest.

punk is dead. punk was the inevitable result of something real, of a life lived so truly to its own fucked up circumstances that there was no room for shame, of a life lived so close to the ground there wasn’t a thought to spare for what it looked like from above.

punk is dead. punk was born of poverty and necessity and spite and feeling and if you lived that way you’d look nothing like that cause you’re a different fucking person. you’d look so cool but we’ll never get to see.

punk is dead. everything you’ve ever done would mystify it. it would take offense. stop playing with that corpse and wash your hands. you’ll get a disease. (fucking posers)

see grunge see emo see goth see the fashion cycle cycling.