Beauty’s radiance isn’t measured by those who admire it or wish to possess it as their own, nor is it determined by how many hands mar its crystal surface. Beauty shines from within and is only acknowledged by itself—regardless of a begotten shame—pure to its core or otherwise.
In numerous ways, the heaviness of my heart has become standard configuration; a melancholy amalgamation of sorrow and growth into Spring.
All the numerous, scattered blossoms of happiness could be argued to have come too late.
But, as I am happier living in the present, I’d like to think the timing is exactly what it should be; or, I’ll prune away all that sunshine has brought to life if I find myself unable to recognize meaning upon the many petals I’ve pondered over snipping from their buds.
Even those of us who are most gracious sometimes relapse into the same bitter habits that held us back at our lowest moments.
If only winter could come so I could blame all the sabotage on frost instead of my own will.
Ran distance at over 3,000 stinkin’ feet above sea level today.
My lungs are not happy.
My mind’s annual replaying of my being chased through the woods, manhandled, and fucked against a tree is something I have yet to understand about myself. Probably because it isn’t quite me seeing the scenes play out; or only me, rather.
Fantastical Aflorafawn is fearless but shy, and tentatively sexually inclined to the tune of being slightly animalistic—a wide-eyed primal vixen. Something akin to a docile she-wolf.
I adore her, really.
She’s a darker, more free version of who I am on a day to day basis; an adjacent, full-bodied figure of mist habitually plagued by depraved thoughts and a longing for deeper sensations in every sense of the word—a few scratches behind the ears per se, or an endless supply of the delightful pleasure because she’s shameless.
That’s probably why she’s always scantily clad and running through the woods from the compassionately aggressive male figure of MY dreams. The bitch.
Not that I believe I could be swayed to stop her gallivanting about.
Unlike her brazen nature, I am a self-conscious glutton, completely disillusioned about my contentment with living vicariously through her.
Anyway, to depart from my ramblings…I’d say the scenario certainly redefines the term “tree hugger”.
I can never finish anything.
It's a curse, really.
To be aware of a gift—a talent—but never have enough steam to quite make it across the proverbial road.
Even now, I struggle to write what I've felt for ages.
Too consumed by the need to make my words enough that I've stunted my own primal need to make things I love for me and myself alone.
The pitfalls of a people-pleaser I guess.
Confident for everyone except my self, and it burns.
I'd not wish this darkness upon even those I majorly dislike.
I digress.
It saddens me, really, but my agony is truly the only proof that the words I have inside me are constructed of some special kind of energy—life.
If not, I'm delusional and using arrogance to cushion my shortcomings.
But...if so, I've faith that, one day—preferably a rainy one—I'll finally conclude all that I've begun.
the only thing more moist than this incredible mac and cheese is me v_v
There she is
That girl
Somewhere between strange and beautiful
There she goes
That girl
Trying not to trip over her feet while she wonders if anyone’s watching
There she wanders
That girl
Unaware that I have eyes on her from within her own soul
That girl
Unaware that she knows all of who she is while also knowing nothing at all. A terrifying dichotomy that keeps her up at night and smothers her during the day. An undeniable complication that jumbles her words even when she knows exactly what to say. A plague that eats away at her world’s good health while any available aid remains locked away.
Here, uncertainty and fear reign.
running away is freedom. It is the only way to escape the evil queen, it is the only way to escape a worried father at the base of an enchanted tower, and it is the only way to be truly happy.
In this chapter,
the princess fights against her hesitance and the overbearing empathy that drags down her delicate body carried by frantically beating wings.
She struggles to stay airborne as her wings push to be stronger than the harsh winds throwing antagonistic whispers of “you’ll fall” and “you’ll always be weak”, but, eventually, the wings fail and the body, bruised by the evil words, falls.
Broken and unable to resist, the princess is dragged back to the tower by her own fear and anxiety—a traitorous self inflicted punishment laid down so firmly, the princess has no choice but to comply; to concede.
As she stumbles back to the enchanted tower, her legs and arms fatigued and her wings lifeless and dragging behind her, she passes the queen and, though the expressionless woman says nothing, an “I told you so” is written in bold across her irises.
Deflated, the princess nods solemnly and whispers, “I know.”
I want toothpaste and floss for Christmas.