too much

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favourite

This is by Some Girl. I don't know if she's leaving blogger. But she is an incredible writer and blogger. I had two favourites when I began blogging 15 months ago, and she was one of them. This is an excerpt from her latest post.

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I started this blog because I needed to know what I looked like on the inside. I needed to build a separate perception of myself...I never looked into my own face until I started this blog. This has been a simultaneous process of hiding and revealing. What I hid during the day, I revealed at night to a blank Word document. I used to be someone was the first sentence I ever wrote here and it's one of the truest things I've ever said. I used to be someone, I used to be a lot of people. First, I was a walking archive and then an arsonist, searing the past, memories and people alike, into ashes and then I was just some girl sorting through the wreckage. I can write myself out of anything, even the past versions of myself. I wrote until the multiplicity shrank so tiny that the ropes loosened and fell away. I used to be the person who needed to build this place but I don't want to be that person anymore. The clock has rolled back to zero and I am free.

writing letters

By Melee of The Midnight Train Of Thought

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Dear You,


Whenever I write, I always feel the need to address myself to you.
You, you! It's so ambiguous. You could be male or female. You could be my mother, you could be the dog next door.
Sometimes I'm not even sure who you are. You are my lover, you are my enemy. You are a sonnet, you are prose. You are sufficient; you will never be enough.
But you know... you always know. I can tell you those things I always wanted. Whoever you are, I need you. Because, in writing to you, I feel a little less lonely: you're reading along.

Thank you.
Ever and Ever,
Me

not mine.

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That the way light
bounces off your skin
has nothing to do with who you are.

That smokers believe
they need to die a little,
just to go outside.

That art has always hated the frame you put it in
and would lash out,
kicking and screaming in the streets,
if you gave it half a chance.

That the way lovers touch
can not be communicated in words,
no matter how often or how hard you try.

That your body fights your mind
and your mind fights your soul
and your soul fights the world,
to try and figure out what you are.

That sometimes, you're just tired.
That's all.

- http://www.iwrotethisforyou.me

Stolen

Kudos to Lily for posting this, I just stole it.

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“I wanted to kill the me underneath.
That fact haunted my days and nights. When you realize you hate yourself so much, when you realize that

you cannot stand who you are,

and this deep spite has been the motivation behind your behavior for many years,

your brain can’t quite deal with it.

It will try very hard to avoid that realization;

it will try, in a last-ditch effort to keep your remaining parts alive, to remake the rest of you. ”

—Marya Hornbacher

darker

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ever after

This is a post by Ever, that i adore.

There is so much,

too much,

to say.

I can't begin to wrap the words together

nor can I undo the ones I have created.

The thing about creativity is

once it is done,

it cannot be undone.

The intricate vines that you weave

layer themselves

into the most unspoken beauty.

They thicken until each and every reader

is shut out

from their truth; their connotation.

The denotation,

while pleasent and blooming

with lilacs and sweet pea blossoms,

is never what it seems.

Eventually, what you have created

will begin to bloom itself

cascading into the neon sharpness,

carving into acute angles.

Withering until the flower-scent

seeps into your mind.

It's pollen wiggles into the crevices,

dangling along your neurons

puncturing your occipital lobe.

These vines encase you

wrapping into a tight shell,

protecting your innermost softness

and locking your secrets up tight.

Together, you sprout thorns.

what to say

kudos to Erimentha.

To myself:

To ellen:

To boys:

To Lewis:

To everyone:

To ellen's mum:

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letterhead #3

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Dear you,
I went through and read all your posts today
and that's when i realised.
Frozen raspberries, that's all you said, but that was enough.
So now,
I think I know something about you.
And you don't want people to know.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I found out,
I'm sorry I stole a part of you that was private and made it mine as well.
(even if it made me feel better)
This changes things.
Because we don't actually know each other.
But I always have wanted to know you,
you just never seemed to really like me.
and now you've stopped blogging.
and i wonder if you realised first and stopped.

But this is my secret too,
so maybe we'll just have to share.
maybe it won't matter because you'll never read this and i'll never say anything.

But if you do:
i did always want to be friends.
i'm sorry i didn't realise how sad you were earlier this year.
i'm sorry i found out.
please don't tell anyone.
because i've written these things because i can't say them
because i don't want to.
because there are consequences and i've discovered that.
and please don't judge (i didn't)
also, i meant every word in the poem.

i don't know if this will change our friendship.
mostly i think it won't.

if you really have stopped.
congratulations, i guess blogging is almost a process of healing.
you've completed the test.

with love,

i wonder if i shall post this.