Nothing prepares you for the ache of mourning. I am mourning my idealism today, trying to hold onto the ideals in a quicksand hug while reality grapples me like an inseparable birthmark. The trajectory of growing up is learning how to make a coral museum of grief inside the wormholes of your heart. Unable to build a Lego bridge where your idealism kisses your reality, unable to write yourself a soft epilogue.
You can’t sleep so you go out with a smartphone flashlight, looking for yourself. Optical illusions of people surround you like Aurora lights ice skating on skies.
Sometimes art is a canvas of whiplash shades of your anatomy chemicals and sometimes art is a sketch of a reality you string in a necklace of “sweet dreams”.
They didn’t tell me growing up was nurturing houseplants of responsibilities and often failing to water them because you are binge-watching a DVD of nostalgia on nights when loneliness sublets you it’s house. They didn’t tell me growing up was walking in circles in my room past midnight trying to remember the face of my imaginary friend. Dimming in my mind in slow motion like the night mode of my phone.
My heart and mind are caught in a bar brawl and I am writing a list, 101 reasons why I do not want to take a bath in a tub full of cheap barroom whiskey. I am under so much pressure, that every time I yell about my mundane frustrations, a diamond falls out of my mouth.
This year morgues served welcome drinks no one ever wanted. We inclined towards ice skating, tiptoeing with skates on sheets of paranoia and uncertainty. Silly! You don’t tiptoe on ice, you will plummet like snowflakes that never had the chance to twirl magically in a Disney movie.
I am a liar.
Let me tell you a story you wouldn’t even try to understand: I have vanished into easels and thrown myself into an ocean of stories.
In my daydreams, I am cuddling the moon and gluing the stars to form constellations like the connect the dots puzzles that arrived in the newspaper every Sunday.Continue reading “Witching Hour: Snippet”
-> The shimmering holes in the jar of the sky are the tapestry of entangled neon fairy lights of the Universe. The most ancient of nursery rhymes ever warbled, the wonderment of the wild, the stars.
Stars, the holes in the jar of the sky poked by the space dust and countless unnamed, untamed vapors of the cosmos comfort me.
1. Thank the person who nominated you.
2. Post a quote for three consecutive days (1 quote for each day).
3. Nominate three bloggers each day
Quote of the Day:
Every morning, awoken by the silent screams of her soul,
Like the convulsing tides of the misty ocean reaching on the shore.
Carbon soaked nightmares found tangled in her dreamcatcher,
Heart <a href="http://Toxic“>intoxicated with the fatal poisons of broken matters.