Biking to find basic necessities took me half a mile away from Kentucky when all really wanted was some toothpaste.

I cried.

It was almost poetic.

Ha! vagabond. rather. lost soul.

that's true.

how valid.

Validate my soul border of Kentucky.

Thank you.

boho soul?

I am such a fake.

This question keeps seeping into my mind. It's in the preliminary stage. Can I ever truly committ to myself when I feel as though I am judged or not good enough? This city is faux-metropolitan. I am the plastic fur coat rotting in the gutter.

As this city is only a tiny slice of something much larger, something that I am quite ignorant to. He said just to be myself. But that self is dressed in newspaper with an obnoxious scarf and dances by itself and is intrigued inwardly rather than being forced by society in this situation to smile and be friendly. Because this is it. The first and last chance I have to stop idolzing and just be.

That's what the Shakey greek god said. Just be. stop faking it. Just be. No one really cares about you. That isn't meant to be negative, it's just the mindset and attitude of this age.

Acorns
1. Take off the hat.
2. crack open.
3. Let simmer and turn golden.


I am Blanche. Don't ask any questions. Just accept that fact that I am a moth and let me burn.

shaking many new hands thus letting go of others


I wish I was myself.

merci clear water.

no appriciation now but the absence will be felt later. and that saddens my soul.

oh, love!

"What's it feel like to be a ghost?"


This is it.


a void that burns.

when one can burst into the melancholy shuffleby a certain smile or a look at another.

"Have I told you lately that I loved you?"
Too bad it was a farce.
as you proceeded to kiss the Woman Seated Beside a Vase of Flowers and Alma too.

And I wished it was me.

Wandering around this city makes me plummet into the spidery void of my soul that gluttanously loves this contentment, this confort, this pre-packaged love.
It will never be snuggled so close as it is now.

I've never expelled so much salt.
If this is purgatory to you, I consider it a plushy chair. A plushy chair filled with old physics tests and letters and scripts and programs and books that all look like depression to my innards.

I already miss this love like hell and I haven't even left yet.

my father's glasses and box of blueberries. my mother's perfume and love for the humidity that makes john put on goofy shorts and smoke outside while I can smell it in my bedroom. conrad's jargon around a campfire in the garage and bringing woe back to the ground. wandering around the third ward with ame*lie* and discussing life as it is and lindsey being giddy over her love whose so "nice (with an american sign language thing that I am afraid to question the intent)" and eating all the raisins in a certain pantry and a bannana too. those who show such love and spirit in a performance space that it creates a waterfall in my heart to be able to work with such spirited, beautiful people. and the teachers who have made walking through those doors a pleasure and made me grateful for other human beings. and the love inside the curtains and in the lighted room that I will never forget and the person that has taught me more than I could ever repay. the person that I have dissolved to the raw innards on more than thirty seven occasions and who never hesitates to answer my questions. thank you. thank you. thank you.
and you. and you. and you. and you. and you. and you. and you. and you you you.

the purpose of tombstones.
stay gold.
I wanted to love you. Ponyboy.
Remember that.