love is a burning thing

“Bury this bone and take this pine cone,
Bury this bone, to gnaw on it later”
-Joanna Newsome



Let's not start off on a sappy note, shall we? I'm not in the mood.

What I want is to feel the words in my mouth like pebbles and be able to pick out which ones are right. Pick them out, one by one, covered in spit and place them here, so that I can explain. So that I can explain something I don't think I have ever been able to put into words.

If it were you, what would you do? Would you sit and croak and cry and feel sorry for yourself and everyone else who had the unconsciousness enough to approach you? Or would you pull up those bootstraps and put on a pretty face?

Make nicey-nice for the crowd?

I can't tell you what you would do, because I don't know how to answer the question myself.

It's a hard one.

What if love left your life? What if, even though you had the phantom of a memory of love in the back of your head but your skin felt like lead, like dirt, like poison...and you were afraid that even leaving the house would cause you to infect everything?

That just waking up could infect your beloved? The person that brought you this salvation from yourself...That just being in the world at all was what caused floods and earthquakes and tornadoes? Caused people to feel pain and caused people to feel hate? Would this be too much for you? Or would you flip the world the bird and be as strange and sick and harried as you want to?


This has been the state of me. I don't care anymore who reads this...(also I know it is just a handful of people anyway)

I am sick of keeping up appearances. I have the cinders inside me to start something good and bright and mine and everything I do is make steely weapons to keep the monsters away. This fucking depression is not going to get the better of me. Not this time.

So I don't want to get out of bed. So I wish the whole world would just melt into my background...I have important things to savour. I have love to savour, though it has been a tricky beast.

I want to write. But most people don't even know that about me. Why? Because I'm scared. Wimpy little child never wanting to start because she's afraid to fail. Fuck that! I keep saying that I want to write...but what stops me? Nothing...I stop myself...Because I think I'm not good enough or because my mother thinks I should go to secretarial school.. I am too easily defeated. WELL ENOUGH OF THAT.

Welcome, my pretties, to a new age. The only thing I have to thank is love.