unabridgedone

unabridgedone

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saved

I will not keep these letters you wrote or the pictures you took of my home you will not remain in my memory or in corners where thoughts will roam you will not be in my heart you will not be in my mind you will not be saved for reminiscence's plunder to find

probable was a young man who liked girls. one day, he met a girl and her name was predictable. they went gambling in Vegas. won a million bucks. rode giraffe into new york. and then ate ice cream with the statue of liberty. (my sister's attempt)

Ah, in a lifetime we all search for many things. We lie. Try to tell the truth. Hurt. Try to heal. We plunder and hunt for something to ground us in ourselves. Validation and happiness. And we do it against all odds. Against all probability that what we search for is not something that can be found, but must instead be made.

I take all the bullshit you throw at me. Every name. Every lie. Every bit of invalidation you have to use to make yourself feel human. I sponge it all up. Taking your misery. Heavy, wet, leaking.. .you can't do anything with me. And even when it evaporates inside of me somewhere, I am left porous and dry.

bungee jumping, locking those eyes somewhere that is not down. Funny how most people want freedom so badly. They don't want to be told anything, but their desires are always formed from the "thou shalt not" but most people regard freedom, subconsciously, intrinsically, like the bungee jumper regards his harness and ropes. Escape is the last thing they really want.

cross

There are no more slivers of glass on the side of the road. No tatters of clothing. No drops of blood from those who died in the tragic accident. But I can't pretend it never happened. That no lives were lost there. Three crosses, flowers erupting from the center, wait there. Watching. Screaming silently

none

There were so many of us, at first. Going to movies, hanging out after school. Time is at fault, I guess, for the gradual dwindling. There were five. Then two left for college. That leaves three. One got married. One committed suicide. And here I am. Might as well be none.

Will ink become your blood, sister? Going to that tattoo parlor with your friends, getting stuck just because they did... you've been indoctrinated in an ancient caste system. You've made it permanent and obvious that you do not own yourself. Falsely decorated. Falsely adorned.

miles

There are roads to many ends. And ends to many roads. But I'll never know those ends, I think. You don't have any ends. And I no starts. Miles between us, and no road. So many miles.

near

there's a funny sort of insanity in loving someone you will never meet proximity is not closeness being with you is more than being next to you in our minds, in mutual affection, we are near

writing since 2010 · 10 entries · 9 days shown up

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

3longest streak

9days written

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on this day 16 years ago

whitney wrote about cross
“There are no more slivers of glass on the side of the road. No tatters of clothing. No drops of blood from those who died in the tragic accident. But I can't pretend it never happened. That no lives …”

the words whitney reaches for

endsfunnyroadsmilesroadbloodyourselffalselybungeesomewherefreedomnameliesearchplunderagainst