🦇🖤

For those who can’t go to the ocean…. 

“You can’t tell, but i’m falling apart. Starting from my thoughts to my toes.”

“I have a creative itch, but no outlet. I hear poetry or song lyrics, or I read a good book, or see a good movie, and I think: That. I want to make something of my own that describes that feeling. I know I’ve done this before. But I don’t remember how. The words used to just spill out, and now, it’s like I’m all out of poetry. So instead, I go to bed each night with this buzzing in my brain. Everything is bottled up in there because I can’t remember how to free it the way I used to. It’s not devastating or anything. Just this constant frustration lurking inside me. I wonder how many other people feel this way. More often, I wonder how many people don’t ever feel this way. Everyone describes me as “the creative one” and I wonder what it feels like to be non-creative. Is it easier to be a mountain instead of a volcano?”

“I hate to feel that I’m standing still in life. That I’m not moving forward, I’m not going anywhere. It makes me restless. Like these walls are shrinking in on me and the windows are getting smaller and smaller…”

“My problem is that I fall in love with ideas and thoughts instead of reality. And it will be the death of me.”

“I think people would be happier if they admitted things more often. In a sense we are all prisoners of some memory, or fear, or disappointment—we are all defined by something we can’t change.”