Monday, June 25, 2012

If you die before your thirteenth birthday, it's a tragedy, if you die on you're 21st, you're an idiot, inside of your 27th year, you're a legend and if you make it past that - you're invincible, the funds for your stone figure in pioneer square are  collecting, and getting soggy in their abundance. Well I am 22, 23 relatively soon, that gives me five years and some odd months, five years to break the red ribbon to 28, five years that I need to stay away from knives, people with guns, cancer and a loss that sends me to the dark box where I push myself off the edge, and somehow during these years while I'm busy avoiding all of the catastrophic mess, I need to create, to burn upwards instead of downward, fuck, to burn at all. In my egotistical Leo case, surprisingly, the idea is not to make it past 27 to become legend, but to have the freedom to explore, to shed the too hot wool of imbecile that I pretend to breathe in now. I will lay low for now, hibernate in-between the grey-scales of my own dreams, watch my boyfriend read books on the bed, and on that humid august day, when the second number turns from a 7, to an 8, I will have out ran the intruder, and a new sense of validity to my "work", my "mental illness", my LIFE will rain.

I want to hear what is between each note on that CCR album.

I guess I watch Netflix because it is easier, just as I keep flipping back to facebook as I try and sit here to make myself write, what are my FRIENDS doing, what is the WORLD doing, I do believe that this sepration between myself and my writing is largly in part to the speration between myself, and I. These damn keys are too far apart. Too god damn far apart. The air was thick out today, the ground was thick today, barely lifting right, foot, left, foot, out of the blood of the weekend. Gun shots

gun shots
vulnerablity
somewhere someday
drinking
themental hospital
my friends or lack there of
craft night

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