emsoccergirl

emsoccergirl

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We trick our minds. They manifest powers we do not have. We let ourselves believe in things that do not exist. We fear the impossible and trust the dangerous. Our experience is a manifestation of what we've tricked our brain into believing. Fake it until you become it.

I decompose at the end of the day. I do not unwind. I break down until I no longer have a body that is mine. I am not alive. I am not dead. I simply am. I do not want to live. I want to be. And the way to do that is to decompose. At least when I am asleep I do not know of my body. I know of my mind.

fools

We are all fools who are trying to trick ourselves into thinking that we are something more. We are no more than ignorant tricksters trying to play god in a world that I'm beginning to wonder why we think we own. We are fools who believe we will never die. That it will never be us.

I wish that inside my head I could fly under the radar. To be undetected even to myself. I wish that for one day I could see inside my head as though I was an outsider peering through half-closed window curtains.

The bells ringing in my head are alarming. They are the alarms that tell me I am not right and that I am not able to find this sense of being wrong. The alarms are alarming. I cannot escape these alarms, for they already tell me I am too late. I am behind. I will never be first in this race to find myself.

The collage that is my life has been made of experience. Experience from things I have seen with my own eyes and from things I have felt with my own body. Our lives our collages, made up of pieces that don't seem to fit together unless you look at the whole. Things that appear unlike the others until the story has been told.

Their feathers scatter in the wind. The drops of blood remain. Those fallen from grace have never felt more alone, but at the same time never more free. Free from a perfect but cold world. Free to make their own choices and to live by their own code.

How does one combine words to make sentences, or even combine letters to make words. How do we combine sounds to form speech. Everything seems so out of reach at that basic of a level. We have created something beautiful known as language. Something so far from ordinary.

signs

All the signs were there. She should have seen it coming. From slight gestures, all the way up to the time I took her out to dinner and I insisted I pay. How could she not tell how I felt? I didn't understand. Nor did I care. I just wanted her to notice.

For the first hundred days I thought my heart was breaking each time the sun rose and you weren't there to wake up with me. For the second hundred I just cried. Now we're almost a year and a half later, and still have no idea what to do with my life, who to be with, or how to love again.

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writing since 2008 · 45 entries · 44 days shown up

each square is a day—lit means Emily showed up.

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on this day 14 years ago

Emily wrote about darlings
“The little darlings. Small children. Actually I don't really like small children. I didn't like small children when I was a small child either. I just don't get along with them. Perhaps this is a per…”

the words Emily reaches for

lovewordsnowwhethercannotratherrunhalfoftenendingmysterybelievefriedalivedespitecap