I hath reason to believe that within the castle moat resides a creature of sinister origin with malicious intentā¦the moat smells fouler than usual, and when I walk by I keep hearing a āpsstt!ā Like someone is attempting to grasp mine attention, yet when I look around no one is thereā¦
Anyhow! The little people residing beneath the floor boards never did return, so I assume them to be dead. Such a shame, they were a lovely couple. I shall leave flowers out for them.
Snarfius and Booper hath not been taking their divorce well. Snarfius becomes quite violent when the subject or anything remotely related comes into conversation and Booper persists to hide from me, a game of hide and seek I am very much not enjoying. When I do find Booper, I always make sure go place her in the toy chest and lock it, yet she always manages to escape. It wouldst not surprise me if it were the rats unlocking the chestā¦
On a lighter note, I hath been supplied with more human company than usual! Some old faces hath reemerged, though they doth not stay for very long. They seem to appear and disappear whenever they please. The clownās company however, tis continuous. I doth not mind their presence as much as I used to, perhaps solitude hast made me soft, and they hath shown and taught me many a new things! The ponies unnerved me slightly, their chant forever rings in mine ear.
My little pony, i used to wonder what friendship could be, my little pony, until you all shared this magic with meā¦
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I was having a delightful conversation with the little people that live beneath the floorboards of the western wing, we partook in apples and cheese, of which I sliced very thinly and tiny for them, and we spoke of many wonderful things.
But thenā¦ *sniffles and lower lip trembles* ā¦
I left momentarily to acquire some cloth as I had accidentally nicked mineself during the slicing, and when I hadst finally bandaged mine finger and returned, they were gone.
All that remained was a couple tiny cubes of apple and cheese that the rats had begun to feast upon during mine absence before scuttling away when they noticed I hadst came back.
I hate those rats.
The gluttonous vermin probably scared the little people away, yes, that must be it. The little people were very polite, they wouldnāt have left without a goodbye if it werenāt for the rats. I know they wouldnāt, theyāre different, not like the othersā¦
The fault is mine. Perhaps, If I hadnāt left, the rats wouldnāt hath came at allā¦
It is so refreshing to come back to Tumblr after browsing Twitter. It's like coming home to true friends when you're surrounded by fake people all day.
February has proven itself thus far as my enemy and honest captor. I have found myself in a period of limbo, a kind of purgatory between the delight of the past and the gloom of the future, a place where autonomous movement is limited and forcibly vague.
It feels so strange to return to this place of oddity and static. I often forget I am an adult. Confusing myself now for myself at sixteen. Held back by obligation, submitting to ideals not my own. No wonder I felt so confused in my pubescent years. Being put back into shoes too small for me now gives me compassion for myself in the distant past. But I digressā¦
I will miss 2025. She was good to me. Graduation, starting college, friends, work, purpose, loverās trysts. A glimpse of what life is āall aboutā: self-actualization, experimentation, freedomā¦ And then 2026 bursts in rude and harsh with the world on its shoulders to bestow upon all those hopeful dreamers lost in the bliss of routine. Myself included. Leaving me empty-handed, doomed to start over.
I am not foolish enough to charge blindly into a new rotation of the Earth with optimism and cheer. I understand now that this is not āmy yearā but the year of my servitude. I will trudge forth with an attitude of fatalism. An overbearing sense of this-is-the-way-it-must-be. The mantra is to adjust, acquiesce, and most of all endure. Uprooting myself from home and moving far away from what I know, I do so with the bittersweet knowledge that I will live āmyā life again one day, while understanding that for now I must sink into the role set out for me by family and fate. Capitulating one last time to the cry of āwhatās bestā.
In my last days here as a Californian, I have found myself ill at ease. My current state of mind is discordant, sluggish, and agitated. Between sly attempts to fill otherwise empty time with friends and events, upon the inevitable splotch of blank scheduling, the bleakness in my mind convinces me there is naught to do but sleep through the day and writhe in bed, making friction against insomnia by night.
On these occasions, I leave my bedroom only for the dog who keeps watch over me like a loving sentry. Rising early for my duty to feed him and walk him numbly in the crisp morning, rewarded by his puppy grin and wagging tail. Purposely I turn blind to how he seeps concernādumb and animalā as I lumber back into the messy nest of sheets and pillows at our return to the apartment. Succumbing to the urge to waste away as long as the sun shines.
When darkness falls and I can force my eyes closed no longer, I make strong tea andāon occasionā a saccharine drink that mimics wine only in color and reeks of bourbon. (Iāve never been a fan of brown liquor but beggars cannot be choosers...) Occupying aimless time I putter about, listening to The Secret History on a audiobook file. In this time I suppose it is worthwhile to mention Iām supposed to be writing another book, a task to fill the chasm of paused school and work. A void made necessary in my pursuit to move cross-country. Yet for reasons inexplicable to those around me I simply cannot get my foot in the door to begin.
Writing this now, the dog gazes curiously (and one must imagine slightly irritated) by my sudden nocturnal habits. Reading, cooking, baking a singular cookie, cleaning (endless cleaning), rearranging the bathroom, watching the same three movies on repeat, singing, cryingā¦ the list goes on. Mindless diversion in pursuit of avoiding my writing like the plague, doing literally anything else because to write again feels like purposely inducing a hemorrhage; only instead of blood itās emotion. Overwhelming and irrational. Sweeping over every moment in a flurry of obsession and wild frenzy. Simultaneously as close to euphoria and absolute agony as it gets. Like Fitzgerald I draw upon my own life heavily and would dredge up things I purposely obfuscate in my memory. Places, people, and happenings that would manifest as setting, character, and plot. Or otherwise prose-ish poetry Iām not entirely sure has more than one leg to stand on.
In other words Iām entirely unsure of myself. A feeling I am frustratingly familiar with.
But I canāt leave my first diary entry of the year bleak and sullen, so I feel led to create a list of things that have brought a little joy into the fogginess of this February.
1. I have found a place that sells 2 pound cinnamon rolls and currently have half of one in my refrigerator
2. Lushās Valentineās Day collection of bath goodies were released, which I subsequently bought out whilst my employee discount was still intact. (Alongside a bath bomb I found named ānarcissusā to my nostalgic delight)
3. My dog has taken to sleeping beside me as opposed to at the foot of my bed, no doubt sensing my need for company. Which I find endlessly adorable and sweet
4. Iāll be visiting the Getty for the first time in a matter of days, I love museums and I will report back on my findings there.
5. A lively brunch with my (soon to be) old poetry group for Valentines, I havenāt seen many of them in ages and Iām excited to catch up one last time.
Anyways, despite my bout of pessimism I know that there is a purpose in everything. And eventually I will become privy to it.
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