the summer has passed-quietly is such and I can only recollect a few nights of misdemeanors. Sometimes I think that may have been a mistake but my liver is grateful as is my mind because its better for me to think than just to merely act upon nights and grow tired and weary faster.
I feel full up to my brain through my nostrils with cotton dust.
I leave to move to france in a short 23 days. This is both exciting and I hope it will be culturally stimulating. My worry over funds is great however, and my lifestyles requires a great deal of tweaking and momentum. I require a great deal of books to read, and I hate to borrow because I never want to return. My library fees are out of this world and skyrocket whenever I lack the funding to purchase my addictions with their beautiful covers and vellum pages.
I've been writing in the same little red moleskin all year, for over a year now. i think I will abandon it at home and carry my new journal, brown leather bound and beautifully embossed- made in Italy- with me to France. I feel like whenever I make a change for the positive forward thinking I require a new writing development to take place. I hate to complain, I want to observe, and objectively at times. It bothers me that the book is lined but we shall make do with what we have.

my head is dense- full of thought and action. I feel like i am being squeezed by a vice, like my hair is growing slowly in and not out. I feel like stress and intolerance ( the first word to come to mind) and milking inside of me, festering, growing like tumors.
I had a bad nightmare last night where the walls were leaking suspicious liquids and people I love were stabbed in places that I hold high and speak of safety to me- my catholic upbringing worships the church. I felt afraid and panicky and lost. I felt lost when I woke up as well, and out of place, frantic even and as though I just wanted to feel him beside him.
Truly not as though however, like I did. That's one thing of which i am consistently certain.
However my mind if full of aggravating melody and the migraine wont go away when I still hear percussion in my ears and mainly my jaw that feels like I have grinded down 89 bricks of gold. The dust has settled inside my eyes that tear up and my worry makes me clench my teeth harder and picking only provokes bleeding.
I've had a hard day, and a hard week to come.

There is a feeling of being faint
Unrealistic and unfathomably so because to be the greatest pessimist
you expect the least.
There is a line being drawn between what I expected and what I would want that I did not notice till
it cut my wrists, in a place one could hardly miss.
and here is am bandaging with smiles, hopes and
the faintest of laughs
but what could that be worst
if its all surpassed
by secret lives i do not know and by wonders that I dont want to see
this is not a part of me
its plain and boiled with no salt
and I want lavish deviled and spiced
you didnt have to be so nice
as to pretend to be here for me to want me
and above all that desire you created
for me
in my mind
how did you find yourself so kind?
because I cut as well, and I find the spots where no one else can tell
where only you can fear and judge
yourself to frightened to discuss
we shall see in this game for three,
who will be the one deceived.

I am scared of losing out on love.
I leave in a few short weeks and though time seems to be standing still, its also going so fast. and Days that feel like yesterday also feel like last year. I can't remember what comfort feels like, and i feel as though I am constantly itching in my own skin. my hair feels funny and its too short now when I did want to grow it so long. I just get antsy and impatient all the bloody damn time.

the more books I read the more I want to write on my own accord. Write books of my own delusions and treat them like fictional characters. I worry that one day I will write something and it will end up in the fiction section of the bookstore and not the literature. While the literature section is pretentious, they have the loveliest colours, the best velum pages that will never run if you drop them in the tub and the most myriad selection of words. The fiction books are flashy and easy and have no substance. It doesn't matter if they run because those words leak out of ears and minds fast enough anyhow.
I quietly collect my thoughts. I realize that I often love being alone and feeling slightly lonely. Often I am my own best friend and I have chosen to forge through this not to be more social of a character, but enjoy my alone time. I feel like for a year I didnt have nearly enough and my life was consumed by yards of multi colored fabric, books I didnt want to read and papers and many languages. Language is a beautiful aspect of my life, because how many people can swear and tell you that they love you in as many languages as I can?
words are my biggest turn on.

sometimes I am consumed by the overall feeling of melancholy. It could be understood in the form of the black plague, eating away at your systems and rotting your flesh, forcing your eyes to leak excrement's, which are random singular tears in reality.
I always found swans vain and shallow, posing with their delicate necks in photos with their madeup eyes full of egyptian kohl. I had not idea that they mate for life and their crude rudness towards the rest of the world is just undying love. When one swan dies, the other emits a horrible sound like a constant shrieking for a few hours, similar to what a phoenix sings when he is turning to dust and then being born again.
So these large white birds who mask their eyes and emotion behind toils of mascara ad kohl are just protecting themselves from the world.