Silence.

Today is the first day, in a while, I spent on myself. I didn't run away from anything, I didn't distract myself. I sat down and focused on what needed to be done. I didn't glance at my phone every minute waiting for it to light up with a new text.
Nothing. Alone. Quiet.
When the hell did I get so scared of this? I used to pride myself in utter isolation. I used to be strong. I used to have my shit together. I'm so intensely petrified to be quiet and alone that panic attacks sometimes arise from my chest. I don't understand any of this and I want nothing more than for them to cease. I want to be free, strong, and secure in loneliness and silence.

What helps you? Let me know. I'm all sorts of curious.

Restless.

Hello, stranger.
I'm not sure how you wound up here--wait, I'm not sure how I did... That's beside the point.
Welcome, there's coffee in the back, maybe. I might have downed it all by now. Apologies.

I'm here because some times I can't cope in the real world. More often than not, I'm hanging by a thin string of sanity and it looks frail and close to snapping. What am I supposed to do? I have my self healing sessions; my distractions; my healthy activities, but that ominous insanity lingers just above my head with a sinister grin, not unlike the Cheshire Cat. Fuck you, cat. Go haunt someone else's life you grinning piece of shit.

Whoa, that felt good. Maybe that's what I need... A secret, underground club where passive aggressive fucks can let out their aggression in a healthy way, besides resorting to internet trolling and the destruction of many of virtual personae worldwide. *shrug* Just a thought.

Chasing the wind

Oh. What a breath of fresh air. My lungs are damp and moldy from breathing water, and my muscles have withered during their weightless slumber. It is time, this time around.

You can find me at the Eolian.
If you do not know what/where that is then I suggest you make haste and find out.
You'll thank me later with a mug of cider.

"I think we're like fire and water."

.

The tips of my fingers tap melodies upon my plastic keyboard. My limbs yearn for an artistic outlet, again. I say 'again' because I have let that fire fade from my breast. A soft, flickering flame is what it has become. I'm going forth to fetch some firewood...

.

There's a hunger roiling deep inside of me. It shifts to my lips and my fingertips, deftly wandering around on foreign skin, and tasting passion where passion gives. Rejoicing in one's embrace; sweet and stimulating, fleeting as it may, it burns stoutly all the while.

winter of our discontent

I've spent numerous days counting out the many grievances of the world upon achy fingertips:
1. Overpopulation -- a gentle flick of the thumb.
2. Dissociation -- the index gets a pinch.
3. Quality/Quantity -- the middle bends back under pressure..
(just to name a few)

But, wait. Let's turn this around and take a different approach, maybe towards enlightenment rather than burdensome.

I lay my palms up so my skin can feel the open air with its full attention. The sensation simultaneously makes my head swim with pleasure, my eyes close as if to draw focus towards feeling every molecule floating in the air. This, and much more. I am most enraptured with my ability to surround myself with life and the things that I love: growing knowledge, a healthy body, kind souls,  creative minds; an insatiable yearning, mountainous books for me to befriend, and John Steinbeck.

I'm trying.