blush
i loved to see you blush. i loved seeing the pink colour fill the craters of your cheeks. i loved how it matched the redness of your cupid’s bow lips. i loved the thought of blood coursing through your veins, pressing at your skin from the inwards out. you looked like a porcelain doll. your skin was pale and your complexion rubicund. your flaxen hair hung in ringlets across your shoulders and down your back. i loved how when you sat against me under the oak tree outside, your hair would brush against my knee. i would trace butterflies down your bare arms, your calves, your feet. you’d whisper hushed nothings and everythings right into my ear, your lips sometimes grazing the shell. i’d kiss you in return and you’d laugh. the leaves of the tree would cover us from the glare of the world and the crushing weight of reality and the incessant ticking of time.
and i loved to know that i did it. it was me that made your head race, your heart flutter and your breath hitch and increase the slightest bit. it wasn’t that. it was me.
i loved to see you blush.
but i hate that it’s memory.
remember the time you drove all night just to meet me in the morning. and i thought it was strange. you said everything changed. you felt as if you’d just woke up. and you said “this is the first say of my life. i’m glad i didn’t die before i met you. but now i don’t care, i could go anywhere with you and i’d probably be happy.
- bright eyes, first day of my life
flora and cigarettes
this photo was taken a while ago when my camera was new and pristine. i would take a photo of anything and i’d sit at the kitchen island and take photos of drink bottles and the water which formed on the plastic. i took pictures of glasses and books and microwaves and trees.
but that was a little while ago and things change. time is passing, seeping away right now and we are slowly moving closer and closer to our inevitable deaths. i am going to die. but before that i want to live, really live. it’s best to leave past in the past because we can’t do anything about it, but we can do something about the future. this too shall pass.
thoughts
thoughts are dangerous. they breed, build and multiply like the bacteria of a contagious disease, always leading from one thing to another. they twist themselves and form inside your mind, pregnant mind, and coil, press themselves against the walls of your veins and arteries and organs. they become a part of you. the seep into your nerves and numb them and cloud good intentions and thoughts, until all you are left with is an empty shell filled with loathing. thoughts are powerful. they become stronger and stronger, and when they can, they control your actions. they take you over and spit words from your mouth and direct your thin and breaking hand to crush what’s around you. thoughts amplify the worst of the world, the worst of everything. when you sit on the side of your bed alone, alone, alone, they fill and overwhelm like second hand smoke. ever present, dangerous, suffocating, smothering. they make you paranoid when you shouldn’t be. they coax the anger and the hate from the back of the mind and laugh and jeer when it starts rewire the cogs in your head. they lie, pressed to the bottom of your head, being careful to avoid the watch light of good intentions. then they run. then they work. then they corrupt.
- - -
it’s dreary and cloudy over here, but i know it’s sunny and warm elsewhere. and behind that expansive gray cloud is the sky and the sun.
it can’t be possible that rain can fall only when it’s over our heads.
- one republic, all the right moves
strange and beautiful
sometimes words just come at me and i have to scribble them down before they evaporate. it’s weird to think it may have been something no one else has thought of before.
i find it hard to write when i’m not inspired. if i’m pushing the words out, straining to think of what to write next, it always turns out dull and bland. but i wouldn’t really call myself a writer, much like i wouldn’t call myself a photographer. yet. the time will come, and when it does i can reward myself with a proper title. i don’t want to spoil that just yet.
now i’m pressing for words to type onto this screen. so instead i’ll get something i wrote not long ago and let it speak for me.
- - -
flowergirl
she sits forlorn against the headstone. her arms are draped over it, her body pressed against the granite as if to shield it from the world and the fading light of the dawning sun. she sits prettily with her tulip lips, rosy cheeks, daffodil hair and bluebell eyes. but wilted. her cheeks have scratches that have long since been made. her legs are too young for her body. to0 thin and veiny and frail, too weak to support her. so her stem is hunched and she doesn’t get the view of the fathomless sky, but the solid and abrupt ground – her future, the sum of her life. she sits next to the grave like a flower, left in tribute to the deceased, to the missed. those who once walked the earth and scorned cemeteries, but then ate their words. no matter how full and rich with color someone’s life is, it will inevitably come to an end. once blossoming, then decaying. decomposition which is thrown along the flowerbeds to help other flowers grow. that’s why she’s long since given up. she doesn’t want to set herself up for failure. but she’s like those flowers. she wilts as the days pass, and one day she’ll be limp and brown and dead. she just doesn’t want to bloom, doesn’t want memories she’ll look back upon with regret and longing.
a little while ago
i took these pictures a while ago of my lovely friend. she was using the computer at the time and actually hadn’t been posing at all.
i’ve been making actions recently, but they seem to be getting more and more simple. and i’m wondering if the rate of improvement mimics that of fitness, and the more you do it, the less obvious the improvement becomes.
and i haven’t uploaded any pictures using this theme. i hope it turns out alright.
