I've been playing up my senses lately and I wonder out loud- am I witting in the right style? I writhe and write every morning I wake up early because the sun hits my bed and makes me sweat.
Today it is 28 degrees and I am wearing wide leg jeans sweating out all the nutrition I attempted to cumulate into my body last night. My hair feels flat and my eyes and temples are aching something spectacular. but my mind is saying that I shall never love you, and that I never loved you, oh but how I loved you, and you and you were forgotten and so was the 3 before but the one before that how I ached for him too. That being said I know my past and I see my future. I am standing by the looking glass, and I still want to be part of those fantasy worlds. there isn't a space big enough to hold my heart, nor my complications and implications- Ive kept witting them down on pieces of paper bound by red leather- I like anything red, I am wholly red. But those pages of mine number around 100's and millions that Ive read, re-read and analyzed
I feel like a sad sorry girl, but I'm not really. I dont think I am at least. I'm just upset because my ipod battery died and I had no music to skip to, only a lonely voice to listen to on my phone.

i say hello and bat my eyelashes and as ever they get sore after a while. I feel scared that my eyes will bleed and will my heart when I keep my glasses off for too long. I sit in the library, i sit in the sun, i sit on the windowsill and the entire time i am trying to compose some thoughts, perhaps some literal thoughts and not just snippets of words that i attempt to artfully string together
everyone is doing what Ive always wanted to do and I'm a jealous girl.

everytime I stomp my knees crack a little bit and after weeks of not a crack, I'm cracking up.
literally. if you hear a wild shrieking laughter and cackles its probably and most likely I.
I havent had very much sleep and when I do it seems like nothing will be enough. Ive bene living off stale menthol cigarettes from france and enjoying them. Ive also been living in the dark- blinders on, lights off. I skip and jump and in the morning I wake up to sunshine on my face, hello that wont last long. but the sunshine makes sure I'm up and at the day, and ive been buying a million books.
Ive frightened myself into oblivion, I havent talked to anyone really in days. I have, but I've just been.. talking. not conversing.
I feel like everything is starting to fall into place, and I dont believe in coincidences or happenstance.. i meet and i greet and i read and absorbe- it all really affects me for better or worse. I make predictions and feel like nostradamus once they are confirmed.

this isn't the way things end in books and I am more interested in fiction than reality. I write what is real so that I can feel pain as if it was inflicted on my arms- my arm has the most peculiar unpainful bruise and i wish that i could feel it when i push down to hear my pulse on my wrists. Often I forget whether Its beating or not, my heart, because it feels fairly void of being there.
lets not forget- actually lets forget everything- like those quotes i favor from movies where things work themselves out. I'm sad to not even see echoes of what was, and its rude to assume that i am rude and mean and cruel- i am far beyond none of those petty things. I never inflict pain because i am so desperatly afraid of karma that i clench my teeth and rattle my smiles at everyone. I seek out the lives of saints, and that poetry is more relevant today than ever. my own mind knows what will come of me and yet it takes me a long time to accept it sometimes.
i write my wit, and my wit is wrought but bringing me pain- it all comes from seeing humour in the worst and blackest because if i cant smile through these things my teeth will rot worse than my heart. I fear I had too much sugar, but then i rememeber that times has been worse, and they will be worse again.
I only type well, and when i try to write, its too honest to appeal to any. I dream of being published and i forget what it is that im doing.
for stating of facts i heresay- i should purchase a laptop and write stories in the cradles of my nook in the arm of the church that I'll sleep in so soon. Tuesdays are my lucky day, i was born on a tuesday, i nearly died on a tuesday. I believe in these moon phases too, and I can feel the ocean current quite steady at my back, but I would rather smell the seine right now, far away from this desktop.

My mum blames the accident on the full moon- 'shit like that happens when theres a full moon'. Last night it was a half and it was so bright and yellow and lazy that I thought it might drop down from the sky and hit me in the head. As if i havent been hit enough lately- my knees are healing but they are not happy and there's craters in my skin. I spend time worrying about scars.
Last night I sat under the great big windows of the church I will be living in. I've got places to write and write I might- I've got plenty of stories to tell. I'm not really living in a church, just a big beautiful loft apartment of my dreams!!
I keep having the strangest dreams, sometimes their nightmares and a lot of the time I'm dreaming about slovakia, I've been dreaming about horses talking to me. Nothing will even be quiet in my dreams.
I think I read too many books over again, I think I read a lot of books too young and sometimes I feel like I got lost in those characters completly.

one day I dream about wearing really high heels echoeing my skinny beautiful legs and to prance over in my perfect beautiful outfit and whisper, in both your ears, "fuck you."
with my luck it'll be at your wedding.
one day I'll get over it and I wont care, true? I feel like I'm obviously circling the wrong answer here, but theres a 50/50 chance then, true? its all been like a card game, or rather a house of cards that falls down everytime I build it up. I have a lot of words in my mind and sentances that form yet I find it difficult to speak, and to explain myself.
Only these mystyfying who what and where give it any broken sense of appeal. And only to the visionaries, true?
false
false
false

I write and remember and I remember and write, constant cyclical patterns that make my nights easier because sometimes my thought bank is too full. And then I dream about being kissed and ignored and kissed and taunted- I feel like a donkey with a carrot in front of its nose to make it run.
I could click click and pretend to forget, but I wont be able to surpress my urge, and since when do I surpress urges? I have the appetite of a overweight school teacher, and not just for food, for knowledge, for eternity.
its easier to cut open my own wounds and treat than to heal the ones that I have. I feel like my summer was perfectly described in one big crash and then i ended up losing the thing I thought was most important, but really in the end, its still just me. I change the way I write my 9's, my Q's all the time, I change everything and yet i am constantly reminded because a part of me is reluctant to let go of memory. I'll have better memory. I;ll remmember more and forget more because I;ll write it down. My dreams will soar out of those church habitat windows that will offer refuge to everything and surrounding folk will occupy my hands and habits.