For those of us labeled under the umbrella of “different” it’s such a surreal experience to defend the fact we existence. The expectation that you must explain, legitimize, your difference to those who don’t even care to understand it. “I can’t change even if I tried, even if I wanted to.” We have no reason or need to. 

Fixed on the clouds, back against the grass, in attempt to feel deep and understand something about myself or the universe I thought, “It’s not even that the clouds don’t care, it’s that they don’t even have the capacity to care…not single fuck” I lost my train of thought watching cumulous stretch, clump, and twist. Transient. Those clouds are magnificent and they’re real; not printed, painted, or digitized but tangible actual reality filling a void above me. I teared up because not everyone has laid down to wandered at them. I cried as they twisted and clumped and stretched because my mind could hardly comprehend how brilliantly beautiful this full factual transient reality was around me. Thirst interrupted it all, though. I dabbed my eyes and slowly left the park to get some horchata and take a piss and the clouds didn’t give a fuck.

Part of me likes it. Part of me doesn’t like it. That’s why, lately, life has been rather hard.

So many people have the same human conditions. The same human afflictions. We avoid the topics in conversation because it’s heavy, heavy enough to depress us, to leave a lasting thoughtful impression, and we all just want to float by almost tranquilized. The potential in camaraderie is undermined by the risk of barring a soul. We know we need to share to cope, though, exchange ideas and quotes and perspectives to internally deal. We turn to Art. Art is the vehicle for some meaning, meaning seeps into our souls to soothe the burning afflictions. Art we share with others, not the meaning within but the parts that wrap up, dress, and deliver it. We diagnosis alone, medicate alone, and talk about how pretty the capsule looks. 

A Human Thing

thebootydontlie:

We are as powerful as we are vulnerable. People have a way of falling into your life like red wine on white carpet, have a way of lasting for as little as it takes to lick your lips or for as long as it takes to digest a sip. You never know when or how someone will change you—chip away at you if you’re solid or stir you up if you’re not. You never know when or how someone will stain you—until you can’t remove the perfume from old music, until you uproot your entire forest trying to love a seedling of a soul. You just never know who will dive into your memory-bank wearing all of their clothes—what dead things, what gold things, will rise to the surface once they climb out of your troposphere. And people don’t wait to die to become ghosts. We are that drastic—that moldable.

I hate the dry winter but I adore the trees. Networks of libs without a green leaf just empty angles, lined up trunks matte brown in layers along a lane. I hate the windblown dry yellow grass and spindly rough bushes and gravel in the streets. I love, however, the sharp boughs filing away at the greying clouds until a biting green comes back to compliment the sky and soften their touch. When I hate the dry winter ground I’ll wait it out with my eyes drawn up to twigs and clouds. 

(Source: jdgentleman)

The men you idolize aren’t quite like me. Finer tone, better dressed, scruffier or perfectly trimmed, buffer, stronger not quite slim, less timidity, less fragility. Knowing you’d die for someone with that body (that not-my-body)…I cannot reconcile you with the body I have. Living up to your fantasies is not your problem, though. It’s mine.

It’s like my bed infects me with her sleepiness. A drowsy sleepy siren humming a song of softness, wrapping me in warm tendrils of blankets and rythmic breath. I’m comfortably doomed.

Primadonna life the rise and fall. Passion, gaul, and insight to seize desires, hardly contrite, relishing the high. Expecting to  fall, to die, faced with apathetic grace.