I used to derive a sick sort of masochistic pleasure from re-reading my old poetry. It was something I used to punish myself with, in a paradoxical way. "Look at how good you were. Look at you now." And yet... "Look at how awful you were. You haven't changed." And I thought that's how it… Continue reading hello, old me
i've had this blasted blog for 3 years now i move through life with catalogued motions; conscious beats of my heart punctuated with beatings of my brain
death beware of the allure of the void; it ends when you do, and then it begins.
sad time is passing imperceptibly slowly; i am pondering what a thousand ruminating minds have pondered before. (i wonder if they've thought of me as well.)
@mossyemerald my words follow a rhythm, short, stiff and steady; why must i accompany your melody? (but i am nothing without it.)
a pleasure of mine i like to peek my feet from underneath the covers; a quiet defiance against a submissive force, but a silent surrender to one unknown.
i derive a masochistic sort of pleasure from sleeping in the daytime; to sink into an ocean that is no longer yours, while the rest of the world you don't belong to simply waits for you to rest afloat.