Daily Affirmation ♡

Solitude.

I feel proud of my damages. Odd? You betcha. How can one speak with a positive tone about one's own destruction? But it's possible. I'm proud of my climb, my metamorphosis, and my halting ways.

It feels like I'm tone-deaf to all the unsupportive hindrances that I've encountered in this amorphous transition. My mouth hangs open when I find myself speechless regarding the notions of speaking argumentatively. Have I...learned? Oh certainly. And what arguments have I had? The ones with myself.

Every active stimulus that finds it's way into my realm is causing my senses to awaken, bloom, and burst with activity. I love it. Lackluster. No enthusiasm. Why? As a way to become more aware of my damages and feel proud.

—𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅. 𝑬𝒙𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔. 𝑩𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒏 𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒖𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒂 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚. 𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒄 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒃𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒆 𝒉𝒖𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒑𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒈𝒆.

Cinema is an other universe. It's in a class of its own. Every film watched, every moment shared... A lovely, peaceful recollection.

“𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐈 𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐈'𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥.” My moonlight you are, my sensations you awaken...the thoughts I love.

𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎? 𝙸𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚛, 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎? 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚡𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕.

Unbearbeitete Liebe, unbearbeitete Gedanken ... und doch nicht genug. Forever, and ever, is a very long time...but forever isn't long when you share it. Whether Spring morning, Fall afternoon, or Winter Nights— it's forever and always a pleasure, an adoration, a love song, a sonnet, a stanza; a word. Flutter birds, fluttering hearts...

hitsujiotoko_xx

𝐀𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬. 𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞. 𝐒𝐨 𝐈 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐪𝐮𝐞.

Ja. Einzigartig. Das uralte Gedichtgerät. Schön.

Where does it begin? Every story has its origin. Of course, of course, nothing can not possibly exist without something. Of course! Okay, okay— here we go.

Angelina padded across her kitchen barefoot, eyes sleep filled, mind cloudy and her entire morning demeanor; groggy. Her warm body awoke to a chilling tile floor. The bare peaks of the sun were breaking their way into the kitchen, past the flimsy lace curtains. She kept her head low as if the sun was irritating her. She lived sometimes as if she was a roadie for Janis Joplin, setting up for three days of Woodstock. A far reach? Maybe. Although Angelina never considered herself to be too entertaining, she fought for certain roles, scripts in the entertainment industry. Angelina lived the “rockstar” life, but she never considered herself to be a rockstar. Far from it— but she partied like one. Always had. Everything Angelina wanted in life and everything she did was to access.

If she drank, she did that to free the chaotic terror of thoughts, that plagued her mind. She wasn't a looney bin case or anything; nothing clinical or diagnostic had ever been performed on her. But Angelina knew she was different. She had been in school, in acting classes, in auditions—she was different from her own brother. Hell, they didn't even share the same last name; of course they were different.

Standing with the fridge door open, the lanky brunette eyed her choices of the morning. A cold glass of water and...her head whipped toward the counter where she spotted the fresh bananas in the wooden bowl. Ah, Carolina, her every twice of month made must have gone shopping— a blessing.

That was settled then. Breakfast had been decided, now if only she could make the quick choices like that for the rest of her day. Or life. After pouring her glass of water, snatching a banana she shuffled downstairs to her bedroom. It was her seclusion bedroom.

Where she came to write, read, relax...and occasionally, do her extracurricular excessive activities. While Angelina's writing, attempted script and dialogue— talent was a kept seclusion secret. Her use of “recreational activity” i.e. drug use, was not. Almost everyone in her camp— knew she used drugs. And ‘used’ was a limp and loose term. Angelina had gone days, weeks, months, without using sometimes. Then like an uncharted gravitational pull, mustered up enough voltage energy and would pull her back in. And then, she'd be on the wagon. Tinfoil, spoons, baggies, would appear and disappear from her bag, bedroom, all areas of the places she'd go.

Angelina took a small bite of her banana and smirked to herself. How could she...work, agree to drug test, and yet...be an “addict?” But then again she couldn't really classify herself as an addict. In those almost paralytic, drug psychosis states... she'd vow for it to be the last time. And sometimes she'd mean it! Yeah, going months without even giving smack’ a second thought.

A half finished banana was tossed into the waist bin. Her lips disconnected from her glass of water as small dribbles of water, trickled down her chin. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Angelina shook off the impending heard of bison stampeding thoughts and prepared for the day. GIA was wrapping up, final scene changes, edits, cuts; the whole shebang. A nice hot shower, maybe a little coffee, and she'd be on her way.

|| ill and considering. There are only a few days left until the start of a new year. Unable to sleep, yet thinking and yawning nonetheless. What are you mulling over? I'm trying to think when my head is pounding and my bones hurt. No regrets or grievances. because everything operates through a process of lessons and learning. With each dozy cough, I'll look forward to the New Year as these pains gradually go away and I continue to believe the impossibility.

@yung_pueblo

There is often too much to say and not enough time. Cliché. a complete fiasco. Truthfully... Why say anything at all?

My mental imagination is where I'd prefer spend each day. I would much rather be at ease with the knowledge that I can somewhat influence the depths of my thoughts.

Time therefore expires. This will happen. There it is. It will tick more quickly. Let it be.

where am I? now not bodily. Mentally I need to realize where I am at. How am I still breathing above the tide? I sense like I am suffocating in my very own doubts. My very own doubts are to strangle me into some other realm if i'm not careful.

So where does that depart me now? Itching for ink, itching for a experience of comfort. where's my stash? that's what I need. To open that stash, put on that record, and inhale life through a haze that's not me—however a part of me. Yeah, I have gone back on my phrase and who the fuck cares. I need to know who I am and where the fuck I am.

My future self will shake her head in disappointment. And i'm able to shake it together with her— I want a way out, a way in, a place to belong. an area in which I don't experience as if i'm drowning in myself.