caffeinatedstardust
how cliche would it be for me to write here about the blank page? pretty cliche, yeah, I know. but really, that's the big, huge, looming, dreadful thing, isn't it? the proverbial blank page—capital B, capital P.
finding mine has been a journey. oft too loud, too brash, too angry. oft too soft, too scared, too hesitant. but oft as Goldilocks' "just right," and for that, i am proud of myself.
honey is for bees, for bears, for the mouths of cruel girls in high-school bathrooms, contempt dripping from their bee-balm covered lips.
running wild and free through a poppy field until i remember that poppies are associated with death. mass death. wars. atrocities. but they're beautiful. should i be happy that they're beautiful? should I be sad that we have come to see them represent death? isn't death beautiful too? but in what context?