and the rain rain rain came down down down, on top of poor old piglet

“I think of my brain as a huge wall of books. To get information I have to climb up the ladder, find the right book and read it. Sometimes one might accidentally fall off the shelves and flip to a page on the ground–that’s when I get random knowledge or memories.” – The one who loves me.

I wish I had a shrinking submarine. I want my brain to be a library instead, teach me how to clear my head.


I woke up very sad. He held me and spoke clever things, while I was sleeping he drew this. (It even says Mr. Sanders above the door!) I’m not so sad anymore.


the foot you step with has no path, nor does mine

Such a fine line.
No one can remember where it starts, only when they first caught sight of it.
It’s a very simple line, straightforward.
You are taught and told not to cross it. Perhaps you do, cross the line, but only in thought–so that’s alright–it’s not as though you’ve stepped any. No closer or farther back, no, just imagining. Does the line change? Heavens, yes. The line will shapeshift and bend, forming canyons and mountains the likes of which you’ve never seen. But alas, we do not cross it. Some braver than others, usually for the attention, take to the line. How they dance and flip, flying along the line as if it were a trapeze. They dare not cross, for theirs is an act of balance. A game. To imagine the thrill of being one so courageous, so graceful–to touch the line without consequence or fear of falling over it–why, it’s almost too much for those on this side.


I’d like to write a book.

i listened to ghost mice for so long that i accidentally wrote a poem to the tune of their song(s) and now i can only hear it in their voices

My house is not a home, but I don’t mind.
Because I own these roads, and have too much time.
The front seat of my car is a throne.
Behind this wheel there is hope.
I will fly wherever I go.
So know if I don’t answer my phone, I am pleasantly alone.
Last year I was a ghost, I thought I grew–but I’m still broke.
Everyday we come too close, to reaching the end of the rope.
Please know I love you so, but I’m getting in my car and never coming back.

knot reely

I don’t know if I’m sick.
I’m sick of questioning. The nagging, I’m constantly scratching at invisible fleas. People are selfish. I am. I want things, I take things, I’m angry and I’m shit company when I don’t like the plan. Other people don’t plan things the way I do, this irks me. Looking at others it’s simple to me–seeing where they’ve gone wrong, what they choose to define themselves by, what could be improved. I wonder, what could I be doing better? What do they resent in my behavior? Why can’t anyone take a joke anymore? Why does everything have to become heavy and serious? Where did the fun go? With our innocence? Was it ever there, or did we just see what we wanted? I understand it.. but I don’t want it.
I built my world around these people and this rotten house. I don’t think I like it anymore. I want to take what I love and run from all of this. I always needed to feel needed. Now I need myself. I am trying not to be resentful, but I fear the longer I stay and the more that I think.. I don’t know. Things will get worse. Perhaps this pessimistic viewpoint is the reason things have been getting worse, who knows? I am tired, my smile is cracking and I am afraid.
Chin up, kid. There’s a party tomorrow, go practice your faces in the mirror.

“you wanna play that game i was telling you about?” “yes. that drawing one? yes.”

The four of us drew a picture.

Sometimes I forget to count myself. Last night, no one was an extra. Nothing was the way I thought it was going to be.

All of us had fun. Each of us contributed.

I see every one of them on this graph paper. I can hear the music we shared. Our voices. Laughter and shenanigans.

The wooden chair sound effect.

We looked up and the sky had cleared for us. Time didn’t flee from us.

Nothing hurt. One thing broke.

I hope my friends slept well.

i contain it all.

I’ve never let anyone care for me. Nobody knows how to, and I don’t expect them to–I’m a complex mess. No one takes care of me like I do. Even when I had someone who was, to an extent, supposed to, I didn’t trust them to support me. It was more about healing them, preserving myself, buried under their needs in the process. This is why I do not set expectations. To avoid disappointment. It’s safer to be alone. The moment you put faith in something out of your control you risk losing all progress. If someone lets you down, there’s nothing to be done. Depend only on yourself and you will grow strong. Disappointment will be your source of improvement, all within you.

she tells the same story over and over, no one really laughs


Monday, Jan.16th 2017


This is why I never date things. If I write the date first it changes the tone. I never know how to start after that because every thought follows the date, instead of just jumping right in.Usually it doesn’t matter after that.Sometimes I look back, I can remember the feeling and maybe even where I wrote it. Time is a lie, dates aren’t real, so whatever.

Sometimes I date things after I write them, that’s nice-ish. A lot of the time I leave it because I know I’ll go back and add things–I like to write the times on these days.

I don’t know why I’m writing all of this down now. I know I do that and this seems like the kind of pointless thing I might tell someone I am close with. This is the kind of small thing I want to know about. Something as insignificant makes me fall in love. It also makes me deeply sad that most of the people I know wouldn’t give two shits about this.

Where is the appreciation? Where are the tiny things special to someone besides me? I feel like Carrie Bradshaw when I end things in a question that cannot be simply answered.

I’m Chuck Bass.

and nobody cares.