future

I wish I had a job,

just for the sheer joy of motoring back

through twilight, as the streets lighten

windows down? volume up?

maybe going home to pieces of me

little toes, shoes as long as my palm

I will love you as my own, for

you are mine and I will be yours.

(you will make me home)

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(Sh)anonymous

in the centre of what is supposed to be good, Dreams speak my truth.

little blood speckles from mozzie bites in the sapphire evening, and you

 listening and loving. (forgiving) Both caught up in the quiet, fire

pouring from your throat, smoke teases up

spelling burnt hope into the tile roof.

– oh, you. Still friend. Still real. Still here.

I don’t need a dream this time.

packed/storage: south jersey

tight chest & gleamy eyes

gaping out the window at some memories

which flow over the wide grasses

the flickering trees that flash by

as sunlight dapples, shades, twists

a hint of nostalgia, the recall

of something good. Spring has sprung

what can I fear? this is real, I think

or at least I was

loved here once

Paul Thomas Saunders (song of the week)

I know I just recently posted another of his songs, but I am on a serious Saunders/London Grammar kick right now. This song in particular blows my mind every time – I react to it emotionally before I can comprehend cognitively what’s going on. That, in my mind, is a sign of a truly powerful artist.

“Good women lie with losers everyday” – something that is very dear to my heart, the idea that a wonderful, beautiful person will settle for less. Why? I’m still figuring it out. And I love that this song discovered me just when I needed it.

last night I toss and turn

did you know I dreamed of you

that the dead could speak to me,

beautiful icy-grey, they were afraid

so I dragged my sister from hell’s purgatory

with extension cords wrapped about her wrists

it took all our strength, we could have been trapped there too

she was free but still dead

her head lolled to the side in my hands

and I couldn’t even find her shadow.

I wandered our old neighborhood, you know,

found the looming house, all new

and searched for the old in it,

I wandered from room to staircase

and the wooden panels grew fuzzy, blurred in my eyes

I began to suspect I was asleep but pressed forward in the black

feeling nothing but the creak beneath my feet

hearing nothing but the desperate whispers of the dead,

their skirts spread like my mother’s wedding dress on the lawn

quiet afternoon

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Depression is really, really, unbelievably difficult sometimes. Especially as a student, when you’re away from family, you’re plugged into the same old schedule constantly and the piles of work are crushing you.

I had a rough week. But probably everyone had a rough week. That doesn’t make me that special or anything. I just wanted to publicly make a note that I am out of the slump yet again. I have no doubt that it’ll be back, but I crawled out of my own self-loathing and fear and am now happily enjoying a quiet Saturday with paints and Johnny Cash.

The really cool thing about depression, in my experience, is when I’m doing well I become so blissfully thankful for it that the good compounds upon itself and I am radiant. So for those days I fight, I strive forwards towards something “better”, an ultimate state of appreciation and love or whatever waits ahead.

People keep telling me to take joy in the little things. What else is there to take joy in? The big things are scary, unfathomable and far away. So yes, I am happy with these little things. My head is down, my hands are folded, and maybe something beautiful will come of all this. Not today, but someday. I am resigned to hope.

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