Howling at the moon won't make it better

Thoughts from a mouth:

• They could play better things on the radio.
• I thought this coat was faux suede... but it isn't.
• I find sad people incredibly attractive.
  
• I wish I didn't.
  
• I really love the way old clock hands look.
• If you are adolescent, and live in the U.S., you do not speak English properly... to any extent. I will actually put power behind this generalization.
  
• Time is NOT a palpable substance or construct, yet it kills you indefinitely.
• Biologists make good poets.
• Pantyhose make good coffee filters.
  
• I make good.
• Múm tells me "Summer make good."
  
• The Crimea told me that "howling at the moon wont make it better."
• Rufus told me that he's "so tired of America."
  

The strings of conscience

I'm anxious. My mind is connected by threads, not lists or papers or post-its. I'm constantly pulling on these threads. They are red and frayed at the edges. When they become tangled, I cut them. This is reckless, I know. My memory suffers and with this, all is forgotten. As I sigh I realize... This is going to be difficult...

Seppuku soshite Harakiri

Today will be a long day. But pleasant, I hope. I'd like to go outside and enjoy the sun but recently I have been feeling lethargic, and oddly enough in the summer season. It is strange. Also, I would want to get out today of all days and see the grass and strawberries, listen to the cicadas and crickets, feel the breeze and taste the earth carried on it. Tomorrow I - No, I'd rather not say anything about it. Being free from responsibility is blissful, but being free from responsibility also leaves you not a whole person.

The days in August, in Bella Augusta, are often fleeting and whimsical. This August has proved wayward to that consistency. She has dragged on, reluctantly trudging her feet through time. With this, she has given me a greater sense of tranquility and relaxation, but has also withered my eggplants. This morbid balance seems to always emerge in ways not needed. "An eye for an eye," some tend to say, but those who hide behind that adage often hide behind an endless cycle of violence.

So with things I won't name starting tomorrow, I suppose its another step in my life. Actually, I don't know why I said that because I really don't appreciate it when people say things like, "Ugh... life." or "God, my life has been so ____." because one's life is so grand and broad and will encompass one's entire lifespan. So, why put things that way? It's almost forsaking one's own existence.

I killed a Fairy

Recently I've felt as if I am heading for the dragon's mouth or the bottom of the cliff or the end of my rope. Yet in this ominous premonition, I can't stop myself from sliding into the nameless, bottomless, seamless fissure in the earth. Not as if it was my fate; like Hades was dragging my putrid soul to the depths of the underworld. Oh no. I feel all but in control of letting haphazard and small, innocuous actions ensue. Yet I can feel it all piling up on me, beginning to push back, and eventually crush me. I don't want this!

It all seems appealing in my happiest and carefree mindset, but I am not always kicking stones and grazing fences with sticks. My adolescence is not a smooth transition from childhood to adulthood. I can understand a rough one, but I am confusing what is and what isn't. Happiness is momentary, and then later the most dark and distant memory. Yesterday and Tomorrow feel like years and years in both directions, yet I wait for them like they are hay-minutes.

I hate how people use the world happy so freely...

The Ghost of Depression

There is a wispy ghost named depression. He comes and goes from month to month in search of my happiness. He is childish and wise at the same time. He has no friends except me and lacks the social etiquette to make any of his own. If it weren't for my understanding, he would be all alone. He knows so much and has such potential, but alas, throws it all away for the chance to make an impression. He hides in mirrors and indulgences. He likes chocolate and sweet coffee. He speaks little but conveys all with his large eyes that only appear when the moon is full and the stars cry with the gravity of his glances. He carries nothing with him except his collection of masks which he wears when meeting new people. It is quite rediculous, but he insists. We used to despise one another but have grown close in recent years. It is difficult to see any similarity between the two of us, but I can always see a resemblance.
What Depression doesn't know is that he hurts me. I think he's one of those ghosts that aren't aware of the damage they do. He does a lot. He numbs me and steals my empathy until I finally become indolent. I stare at him when he's not looking and when he's eating. He thinks I don't notice, but I do; I see his flaws and the flaws that he imposes on me. Our relationship has become so stagnant and monotonous. I hope we can forgive each other for our vices.