cujo*

I’m falling apart. I’m scary at night.

Take dark, forbidden: keep out, keep out! No, no, no, go forth.

(a has-been, a once was, the leftovers, an eyesore, bleeding, oxidising,
a few remaining, unloved, emotionally damaged, a waste of space,
a nuisance, I haven’t had time to become, unwanted! )

What’s gone? I’m losing it.

this is not what I stand for
this is not what I stand for
this is not what I stand for

It was a perfectly good grand piano.

{ oh }   your touch, so bittersweet

In the tone of a delusional, teenaged girl with the tone of a kind of frustration and delight and shock and bliss after reading a good, sad book. (The Kite Runner, anyone?)

Okay so, it's obvious I've lost my ability to concoct one of those (possibly feigned) meaningful spiels (did I really think they'd satisfy my royal annoyance of the current state of the universe? oh sh*t) that I always tried to put together but never really quite achieved the right degree of personal satisfaction or bring an edge of common sense. (What's the point in reading if there is NO point in it? I murdered the English language!) I just wish I could find the key to the door that hides the remedy to my poisonous language skills. Because oh, my god, everything has structure and you just can't miss the basics. The basics!

It's frustrating because I read a lot and sometimes wish I could write like them. It's not that I want to write a book, I just want to put words together in a way that would finally satisfy me so I can peacefully release my bat wings and sputter glitter and reunite with my definitely-not-vampires family. (Yes, this is called 'lecturing myself.' And I can't stand vampires. Seriously.)

I don't really know, maybe my brain unhinged itself from speaking and feeling fluently as should a human but lately, the things I have been saying is only ever left to becoming disconnected and unconveyed to the point it is not worth a thought. This makes no sense. Am I thinking too much, thinking too little? I make no sense. But that's okay, all is okay with me. This is no rant in particular and definitely nothing beneficial or whatsoever to anyone or anything and I cannot guarantee that things I say are filtered and inoffensive (please worry, I'm not just talking about swearing, even though my vocabulary downright sucks), if you've read this far, please, know that I've already warned you.

Sometimes I feel so violated when a book convincingly convolute my morals and beliefs. It's like I have to remind myself with force of what I should believe and this is just a work of fiction. But fiction, albeit unreal, still has its effect. "Made-up stories matter for precisely the same reason that anything matters: because we decide they matter, because we imbue them with meaning." (John Green, in an answer to a question on his Author's Note)

Can I just say I love everything he writes? Frankly, I'd read his grocery list.

“There are those individuals who die for a cause, and we say they have made the ultimate sacrifice. We call them martyrs, and we never doubt their sincerity.

Yet many others search their entire lives for something—or someone—worth dying for and this is very different. These are the lonely and the desperate, fearful that their lives have no meaning. They yearn for the bullet, if only someone else will pull the trigger.”