the front bottoms

“Sometimes I get this overwhelming urge to light a match and set everything on fire. As the smoke escapes my cracked lips and my fingers shake with the badly lit cigarette between my two fingers, I imagine what it’d be like to watch as everything I claim to love burns to ashes. This city is too quiet. 
This city judges me. 
This city doesn’t feel like home. 
What even is home to me anymore? 
In my bubble of self-destruction, I even imagine myself amidst the flames. Hot, fiery lava just erupting out of my fragile bones leaving debris in every corner I turn. As the embers crackle in the air, I imagine myself thinking, “finally some noise in this dead city.” So I scream as loud as my decaying lungs let me and thrust my arms up to the sky. Then, I take a step out of the demolition and watch. 
Watch as everything I’ve ever known and could never get myself to love, burns to a tiny pile of ash. I pick it up with two shaking hands and lather it all over my body. 
“Finally”,
 I think, “some colour in this dead soul.””

“I’ve been living alone so long, everything about me’s private. I’m surprised anyone’s able to understand a word I say.”

“Go into the arts. I’m not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.”

@ all my mutuals