every person is a new door to a different world

tonight my heart feels encased, but not like it used to. not like it's snuggling in a warm cosy little box, where the walls are lined with pink fluff and happiness, but rather like it's trapped in a old, stuffy, vintage trunk. or a cold metal tin, where the freezing temperature of it's solid ground chills me to the bone.

"let's pretend, for a while, that the rain is the only thing falling fast."

my heart feels a lot. i've painted this large image of it in my mind and everytime i analyze it, the image doubles in size and quadruples it's impact on me. can you image repeatedly running into a brick wall at an enormous velocity? it's a pretty shitty feeling, i'm not going to lie; that's what it feels like everytime i delve deep into my soul and really think about how i'm feeling.

this is what i see:

i see a heart in a box, and i see the box having some fault lines, places where - if it really wanted to - the heart would be able to get out of the box. places where measly amounts of light filter through, tauntingly akin to hope. i also see the heart's feelings rising and falling, sometimes rising to such an extent that they begin to spill over the edges, flooding the box. the heart begins to swim in it's own doing, and soon swimming turns to drowning, because for some strange reason, in my mind, i can never get the heart to float.

i want to know how to forget
i want to know how to end this
i want to be able to forget
i want to be able to end this

you make my dopamine levels go all silly.
this is the one time i advise you to cross the line, and not just stand there and stare at it, you really should fucking cross it

i desire the things which will destroy me in the end.

found that on tumblr - it's shockingly accurate :)
it cheered me up; my deep, darkly brooding mood has vanished and i feel light and feathery, and the song sly - the cat empire helped :)



travel light.

everything is as we left it.

i sit on my couch and i look out my window and the sky is bathed in twilight, the moon dripping in ambience. the trees sway in the wind and in my mind's eye i see your sway.

music drifts up the stairs and i allow it to lay its hands on my skin, to envelop me in its warmth. i allow it to melt me.

my senses are dulled by the perfection of this imperfect scene. i care too much to care.

the heat you exude floods over my skin and my heartbeat races, perfectly audible. what is it about your skin? it's like a slow-burning flame that i am constantly fixated upon, all i want is to be submerged in the inferno.

i don't think i'm scared of what you're scared of, mostly, i'm scared of you.


constant knot


- noun

1. an illicit lover, esp. of a married person.

2. any lover.

i think that's such a cool word. you're my paramour. will you be my paramour? paramour paramour paramour

today was a good day. a really good day.
im going to go to bed now and sleep for 1000 years because i am exhausted.


from her lips i heard her say.

fuck you

fuck you for putting that where i would see it.
fuck you for saying that over and over again.
fuck you for annoying me like you do all. the. time.
fuuuuuuuuuck you.
fuck me.

fuck the fuck off. go fuck yourself.
for fucks sake.

mhwirewgo9u9tC P0[QHFIWESDKDJISiweugbaiulvbawiu OH my god.

too much.
always, too much.
never enough.


superpowerless - the kills

why do you write?

i write to create, and to destroy. i write to analyze, to exaggerate, to avoid implosion. i write to forget, and i write to remember. i write to feel. i write to escape madness.

her hands are clammy and she can feel the sweat trickling down her spine. can she tell she's terrified? she wipes her hands on her shirt and looks everywhere but at the girl sitting next to her. her gaze is fixed on her and she can feel it, she can feel the way her stare covers inch after inch of her skin.

her scent, her glistening skin, her chapped lips, the finest of elixirs coursing through the pumping veins just beneath her skin. i drink it all in. i can't get enough of her and, oh, how her hands quiver. her terror warms my skin and my mouth is smiling. she won't look at me, and i absent-mindedly wonder if she is scared of what she will see, or of what she will feel. i brush a strand of hair across her cheek, out of her face and tuck it behind her ear. she jumps at my touch and for a fraction of a second, her gaze meets mine. her eyes are like trenches, and i fall into their depths.

she cannot help but to stare as this animal in a girl's image softens right before her eyes. she seems to melt, to lose all control of the situation at hand, and she surrenders to her. she looks up at her and her eyes are swimming in wonder and admiration. her lips dripping in desire, instead of blood.


hush hush, keep it on the down low

this is a paragraph from my most favourite book ever. i love how books make you feel like you're in love, too, i just love how the writer makes you feel, makes you relate to the characters. it makes me sad that it's all make-believe though.

the weather is cooling down, which is pleasant.

could she be any more like you?

daisychain - lady of the sunshine

who gives a fuck?

i post a lot, i think i post a lot because i feel
i almost got all cheesy and typed 'dear blog'
if i restart this post one more time i'm going to cry get annoyed.

what are you thinking? what am i thinking?
what are we thinking?

i'm thinking that this weather heat should be punishable by law
i'm thinking that easy a is a cool movie, and that i'm in love with emma stone
i'm also thinking that the little photobooth pictures that show when the credits of a lot like love roll, i'm thinking that they're really cute, and that i want some of them too, some of my own
i'm thinking that the first part of that sentence did not make perfect sense

hey, asshole, wanna dance? wanna take this outside? because i want to slap you and punch your nose and scratch and bite your arm or something like that.

i'm thinking that love stories make me sad
i'm thinking that feelings, in general, are sad
i'm thinking that even when we're happy, we're sad
because nothing ever really has a happy ending, does it?

my nailpolish is chipping off
i can't fall asleep
nathaniel is louder than i thought

there's this girl, right, and i lied to her, and i don't know if she knows. i don't know if she'll ever know. she deserves to know, though.

i could probably go on until the sun comes up, go on talking this shit to nobody at all. at least its like a way of venting, saying things i couldnt or wouldnt normally say.

what would i normally say?

todd: olive, screw all these people.
olive: haven't you heard?

        ...i already did.

i love easy a i love easy a i love easy a. partly because the name 'olive penderghast' is so unlucky and yet she makes it cool. partly because i'd love to talk like she talks. partly because she's so pretty and funny and sweet and she has such a corky laugh. partly because she fails so bad at being sexy that it turns out being sexy. mostly because of emma stone, really.

you know when your life is sad? when everybody starts ignoring you. like dominoes, it starts at one of them, and then another and then another and then another and another and another and another, and when you take a step back and look at yourself, you're standing alone and you're like "uhm wtf happened? where did everybody go? oh, yeah, i fucked up and they fucked off".

i want a cigarette and i miss my friends.


happy : happier : happiest

i miss your face, i miss your voice, i miss the cute sound your mouth makes when you kiss me (in the most non-romantic way possible), i miss your eyes, your laugh, your skin, your hands, your tummy, your stare. i miss the way you listen and i miss the way you sing. i miss the way we pretend to throw up in each others mouths and its not even awkward later on. i miss how cute and pretty you are, and i miss how we laugh at nothing for hours on end.

holy shit, i miss you.

i hate times like these, when all i really want is someone to talk to, someone who will hold me or whatever lame shit. just someone. but of course, at times like these, everybody who has the potential to be a somebody fucks off because i said something wrong, or because i am not a boy, or because i kissed them too much, or because i didn't kiss them enough.

i'm sorry.

i want you.

i still love you.

i am in love with you.

..or what the fuck ever.

that's all it has to be.

i don't want to be with you.

will you be mine?

will you, won't you?

i want to kiss you, a lot.

i want to feel your skin.

i want to count your beauty spots.

i want to stop lying to you, and to me.

i want you.

and, person who is reading this, may it be a stranger, or a friend, or me (this is directed mainly towards future me) -- just remember that none of the above 'you's are referring to the same person. well, perhaps one or two.

oh, happy day, i love distractions.

take me away.

to say this whole thing had taken over my life would be a colossal understatement.

jesus, who am i kidding? of course i'm not what i say i am. why do these lies fall so easily from my lips? who am i underneath all these layers and layers of thickened skin? when am i even telling the truth anymore?

i think it's time for an intervention. will somebody please take out that banner of substantial size and write some heartfelt letters as to why i should give up this habit? this addiction?



oh well, i guess i'll just carry on as per usual. lies on top of lies on top of lies on top of more lies.

i don't think i even know what solid ground is anymore. i don't know what it feels like to be level-headed and sincere. honesty is like a foreign language to my lips.

not even really when it comes to you. maybe if i peer into the depths of my soul, the core of my very being, i can still tell how i really feel about you. but then, on the surface, i lie and i cover it up and i play it cool. oh, please, for god's sake, please just don't think i'm in love with you. that would be the end of the fucking world, wouldn't it? if, for once in my life, somebody knew the truth about me.

i think i'm a little fragile and broken lately, probably because a little bit of the truth slipped out and it was rejected like a piece of repugnant filth. thanks, for that. really.

i guess it's not your fault, is it? you're just telling the truth too, because that's what normal people do, without having a whole complex about it. i wish i could write you some lyrics, compose you a song, draw you a picture, fucking write you some book or something. no, i don't, actually. do i? i can't even tell anymore.

yet again, sometimes i think i live life too intensely to bear living it.