About

I like Sailor Moon, SkinsUK, Harry Potter, Avatar: The Last Airbender, Gaga, Beethoven, Chopin, Chicago, the smell of used book stores, Chipotle, nighttime drives in the winter and long car rides in the summer. I like tea in coffee mugs, pocket notebooks, black ink, late nights and early mornings. I love Tim Burton, White Oleander, The National, Anthony Bourdain, Gia Carangi, Charlie Kaufman, Joan Didion, Jack Kerouac, Rainer Maria Rilke, Steppenwolf, Charles Bukowski, John Green, W.H. Auden, J.D. Salinger, Rilo Kiley, Bon Iver, The House on Mango Street and Jenny Lewis. I read a book a week. I like to wander for hours in art museums and stare out of bus windows. I live in a silent film. I make lists of languages I want to learn and places I want to travel to. I have 79 pages of quotes that I love saved in a word document on my computer. The sea runs through my veins. I see stories in photographs, on street corners, in cracks of pavement, imprinted on the bottom of shoes.
Everything here is part of a story that all makes sense inside my head.
send notes here: asiwroteoneday [at] gmail [dot] com
"frankly, I always thought that
my writing was for the purpose of
keeping me from going
under
but it appears I've helped any number
of others."
—Charles Bukowski, "About The Mail Lately"
♇♆

Stop it

Stop it please.
The new day struggled to stand up on three little minutes.
Can't you see? Can't you see that I am fading away from you? In 40 minutes I will be gone. I will vanish into floating memories that creep into your mind when you're trying to sleep at night.
Please stop it.
I am almost gone. I look solid but really you could walk right through me and I wouldn't notice a thing. I'm fading, fading, decaying into gas and still you try to catch me in empty bottles to display on your shelves.

Sometimes...

(via) Photobucket by FindStuff2

I will try

"You must understand the whole of life, not just one little part of it. That is why you must read, that is why you must look at the skies, that is why you must sing, and dance, and write poems, and suffer, and understand, for all that is life."

— Jiddu Krishnamur

May 30th 2009

The backdrop was purple, spotless, and faded. There were no specks of sparkle. Save the scratch of wood against sand, it was silent. A boat was pushed from the shore by time, pulled by a band of invisible strings. The waters were vast, their distance ambiguous and unknown.

What lies there? Just there, across these waters? An island full of people? A continent full of cities? Boats filled with chances?

Waves of deep breaths roll. Carbon dioxide and oxygen equal time out here, at the bottom of this boat. My breaths drift upward, the sky crashes down.

If storm clouds approach, I will not fear them. When the deep trees of the coastline grow closer, I will not know. If a brilliant orange streak pierces the eggplant veil covering the sky for centuries, I will not see it.
Here I do not know the water at my fingertips or the uneasy swaying of the boat.
Living here at the bottom of this boat, all I know is the backs of eyelids, clamped hands over ears and liquid motion.

Carbon dioxide and oxygen meet and exchange conversation in the air.
Inhale: "Am I there yet?"
Exhale: "Have I reached the end of it?"

I love...

For Stars Will Rise Again

I Can Read

tree castles

When I Am After 17

I Wrote This For You

The Teastained Page

Miss Erin

threehours

I know, right?

.la douleur exquise.

Look Ugly In a Photograph

Lux Lust

restless hearts

ready to glow?

Let Nature Be

A Temporary Dive

Sunshine Monologue.

don't forget to fly

sadnesses.

Quote Book

(non-breaking spaces)

Home Sweet Home

Distant Heartbeats

In Fairy Lands Forlorn

she's on his conscience day and night

she fawns in a murmur of milk

pinpricks

paper thin.

the hymn for the cigarettes

prithee, my dear

Half-heartedly

a fairytale

Lapidarium

Distance Heartbeats

Walk While Reading

Booklover

tempt my werewolf not to run

Virginia Woolf

the blood jet is poetry,

Digital Moleskine

sleeping with ghosts

sweet pancea.

Sick Sad World

sam santos

i need your soul i need your soul i need your soul

Honeyblood

joie de vivre

Circling inside a square box

I cannot live here.
Only exist.

I used to jump impatiently inside these 4 hard walls. I used to think that if I kicked and screamed loud enough the walls would vanish, melt away like sugar and reveal a life that I can live.

They never did.
And my voice grew hoarse, my legs began to ache, and my head began to hurt. Now I stroll around, making circles inside this empty box. Snagging at worn threads on old t-shirts, pulling off buttons from tattered button-downs. Gripping, holding onto a cigarette, watching the smoke twirl away to freedom, to some place I can't go.

But sometimes when I'm tired and staring at the ceiling, I can close my eyes and the stark white ceiling, the lid to this container becomes a transparent veil and it disappears. I can see the blue sky and feel the shade from the trees and taste the breeze that smells like long car rides in the summer. And for a second it seems as though I can stretch my arm out in front of me and grab with blind fingers that heart-shaped cloud that's floating past.

But the Earth spins too fast, time is such a thief, and before I can move an inch, the sky is gone and the box is re-sealed.

The curtain of my eyelids return and I am waiting, wafting in circles, once more.

So I've been told

The blackest night will fall and I will be gone like the sun. But in the darkness, you will find something more important than me. You will find yourself, deep in that ink. The sky will lift you up like the moon, to bring light to a landscape starved of it. And I will chase you and you will chase me, in the hope that one day we will find each other again.

And when that day comes, we will cast our light.

Together.

(via) I Wrote This For You

A Sad Truth

(source)

I used to be someone

I was some of those words smashed into that dusty dictionary that I never use. Hundreds of words spinning around me in nonsensical clouds, contradicting and juxtaposing.
I used to be an archive of everything, a little of this and that. Something different to everybody but nothing to myself.

So I dreamed it all away.
Drowned in music, ran with the blurred scenery flitting past windows of moving cars.
Lost everything, shattered the image, found broken bits of it lurking in between spaces.
Tossed them away, smeared them on paper, pressed them into journals and cut myself on them in the process then bled and bled.
Folded them up small, hide pieces of me in abandoned buildings and under worn rugs, wedged in loose floorboards in places I'll forget.
And burned the rest.

Until nothing was left.

I used to be that girl. Now I'm just some girl, trying to make sense of it all.