230604 - Living in the after
I cry when I argue, I make creepy, weird art, and I write about wizards and plants growing. My desire to simply just know kills me day in and day out, to understand, to comprehend, to reference, organize, file. Need: to study forever and hold all the knowledge till I'm bursting at the seams.
I want to hold all of space in my hands and mold it to fit dreams, or paradoxes, until it's loopy, twisting, confused, suicidal, angry, blissful, gone. When you've been hurt like a small animal, this is logical, justified, even. I want things to be small and insignificant, I want to revel in significance and the glamour of entropic comprehension.
Glass. Rings. The furthest ring of the cosmos, a never-ending circle that somehow comes back around. How my throat feels when I'm trying not to break down in the middle of class.
Reverse: My blankets, how it feels when I'm being hugged, poetry that feels like it's talking to me, the ground being stable beneath my feet, being alone at home, not having to recognize someone's steps up the stairs.
I love the deserts of far-out unreal places. The crevices of my body sometimes feel unfamiliar when I see them, like, what are you doing there? But they have always been there, probably. I let people know that they should be loved even if they are terrible, were terrible, and will always be terrible, because there's enough love to go around!
I love when people are angry, when their faces fill with the strange passion we've made from our little chemically-functioning atoms, I want everyone to go insane and break and fight and die and rebuild and live. It's just so beautiful, I can't help but love the red-hot anger, love when people argue for things that mean nothing to anyone but them, love the flashy words, changing the things they can't accept, until morning breaks and we're suddenly all asleep again...