“Henry is not yet a teenager but likes to hang around the older crowd to feel a little bit cooler. He is wearing his favorite pajama onesie.”
http://www.heathermattoon.com/catsinclothes/
Thank you, Chris. So lovely.
the piano is maybe the only instrument that completely transforms and elevates my state of being every time. i’m so in love with the piano, i wish i could play. i saw someone play this on sunday and fell in love with it. here is a different version, but just as beautiful. oh, the piano.
MY FUCKING BRAIN.
i hate everything about this moment.
i also have had a grain of sand in my eye for the past two hours.
i hate everything about this moment.
and i dreamed you were with me, with the summer at my back.
and i dreamed you were there, so complete and undemanding.
engraved.
fuck.
fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. FUCK.
because i’m sick of bleeding into my journal.
lost. i feel lost. mentally disconnected in a place i always feel so connected. a place i always called my home in some way. i love this place and i’m incredibly happy to have finally made it here. never have i sat here and wanted something else, somewhere else, someone else though. confused. pure confusion. my mind races and runs, bulleting through a million thoughts, a million feelings, but mostly a million memories and a million dreams. beautiful dreams. dreams no one could understand but you. the silence between us in the last weeks, months even in some ways, it hasn’t broken that mental connection, that emotional bond. baseline of what i’ll title love. it’s broken a lot, but not that, not to me.
our playlist droned out the airplane passengers as i cried over the oceans. a million memories, a million dreams. my whole body aches over it all. my heart, my back, my stomach, my eyes, my lips. i wonder why it is called heartache? it certainly captures more than the mere heart. complete paralysis and most definitely nausia.
i just read through my entire journal. it consumed my being, brought me to tears. so much time condensed in so few words. dense words. writings. repetitive, bland, useless writings. unproductive, or so it feels. except your words that i so beautifully documented on those pages. my favorite words. that was a good decision.
i want you to arrive so i can speak to you, watch your face move again, feel the energy from your presence.
life. it hurts. it hurts so much. i feel so so so fucked up and i hate myself in many ways right now. i wish i could grasp some sense of understanding.
i feel so disconnected and lonely, per usual, but this time, i suppose i can’t crane my neck to kiss your head anymore. i don’t have your love and care to rely on. i just have to hope we’ll figure it out, that all will be well. all will be beautiful.
someday.
hope is a scary thing though, but i’m trying my hardest to believe in love and friendship and connection and memory; to believe in hope and potential, to believe in us and believe in beauty.
loving so fucking much hurts so fucking badly.
on a lighter note, i made it to germany.
sad eyes today.
haven’t listened to this song is so long. so so beautiful.
LIFE IS SO FUCKING BEAUTIFUL.
i just feel like dancing and smiling and laughing and being carefree and beautiful.
taking every sip of beauty in. being filled with joy.
thanks, 12 page essay, for forcing me to suppress that for now.
butch emo rock star.
accuracy is essential
we must not be wrong
even by a single one
we are despite everything
the guardians of our brothers
ignorance about those who have disappeared
undermines the reality of the world.
Zbignev Herbert
WAS UP ALL NIGHT WRITING MY PAPER, then architecture drawing, now for sleep. then going to wake up and do it all over again for another 12 page essay.
this is what college means I suppose. eatin that shit up.
1. my desk. (actually my roommates desk that i took over for this essay when she moved out. since mine is too covered in random crap.)
2. a still from a late night video. throughout the process, i made short videos of myself tracking progress on the paper, new ideas or concerns. this would be me rereading the assignment in the middle of the night. my facial expression sums up my past days well.
finished going through the pile of fourteen books about AIDS, ACT UP, and social movements. now to write twelve pages about it.
