#unslept

When I create, it's a desperate thing; I feel as though I am indulging in something too good for me and and am stuffing myself to the brim before i am caught. Music, art, poetry, literature, academics, athletics, contortionism- I enter a room and I am one of the best; A jack of all trades and master of each one. But I am so very full of jealousy, still. Passion is such a beautiful thing, it's a shame I don't have the space for it. Watching others go about their hobbies and daily tasks, it appears as though they are creating something whole, and it astounds me that others can do such a thing: commit to their trade while knowing they're time in this space is finite, to be consumed by their craft; to burn alive and to love it, too.

"It is summer, and I am thinking of old friends. Of the me that belongs only to them with nothing to be done about it. The helpless space they once filled. The places I've cut teeth and ties. Heat seeping out of the oven. Electrical wire. I am hoping it is enough to be both angry and alive, because I am not sure I have it in me to be gentle and alive."

"the clock ticks, one spring Becomes another, the sky turns pink, Cities change their names, witnesses die, There is no-one to cry with, no-one to remember with."

"Mother, there is a grave inside of me."