Seriously.

Quit worrying. Quit crying over things that will not be yours and remind yourself that you never really wanted the whole deal anyway. Realize, once again, that you are your own creation. That your problems are all illusions and of your own making. Stop making trouble for yourself. 
Know forever that you can be anything you want. Want.

Draft resolutions. Go take stupid quizzes online and waste as much time as you need to make yourself feel normal again. Read webcomics and funny books. Laugh. Watch sappy movies, contemplate. Move on. Move on. Move on. 


Drink. Enjoy. Fall in love with reckless abandon. Remember who you used to be. Talk more. Think even more. Formulate new plans, carry them out. Ask for help. Do you what you’re supposed to do. Smoke some weed. Or maybe more. Be honest with everyone. Take pictures and turn them into something beyond recognition. Observe. Write more often.

Above all, live.

Live the fuck out of this year.

While I can’t have you, I long for you. I am the kind of person who would miss a train or a plane to meet you for coffee. I’d take a taxi across town to see you for ten minutes. I’d wait outside all night if I thought you would open the door in the morning. If you call me and say ‘Will you…’ my answer is ‘Yes’, before your sentence is out. I spin worlds where we could be together. I dream you. For me, imagination and desire are very close.

~ Jeanette Winterson

Who could've put it any better?

Just so you know.

She decided that since she didn’t have anyone to love her, she’d create one, a perfect lover, who would fill in till she found him for real. She’d talk to her love, she’d make him little things, tiny gifts and wrap them and keep them in small boxes that would be kept in another, bigger paper bag labeled ‘for the future’. She would have him have all these quirks and habits that she’d grow to love and her own noises would be adored by him. She’d love him so much that when she met other guys, outside of her head, she’d end up comparing them to her love and rejecting them. So she’d be stuck with a figment of her imagination forever because no one else could hold a candle to his perfection.

She shopped for paper bags that evening.

Brain parasites.

The smoke got into your nose. Burnt milk, not pleasant, yet somehow poignant, colored with remembrances of all your mother's cooking experiments. Folly starts out being pitied, disliked, and then falls into a habit that you get used to without even realizing it, attaching itself to neurons in your brain (a host-parasite relationship, all the four key points covered, check); surviving and growing by evoking nostalgia from unrelated artifacts, years away from the source; sending you down a spiral of nostalgia, nary a care for where you are and whether it's appropriate to turn glassy eyed at a plate of burnt pudding at six in the morning in a seedy diner, while you're gritty with cold and the dust of an unknown city and a night spent in strange hands.

You imagine the neural parasite growing fatter in your brain.

And the smell just wont go.

Reality vs expectations

It's a different kind of love maybe,
not like in books
and motion pictures: processed and pretty.

Maybe reality is tough;
maybe our love
is part attachment,
part exasperation,
the occasional over-familiarity
even part semi-indifference
but all care.

And if there's this one
fella right here
willing to tell me
all the things about me
that scares him
that can hurt me,
that honesty, god,
will keep me with him.

It is love enough
for me.

Loneliness is overrated.

We've gone from being group animals to being recluses. Apes were never vastly gregarious to begin with. It is not loneliness thus, that is the problem, it is the realization and the acknowledgement of it to ourselves that is. There is no cure. There's just going on and getting used to it.

The cases worsen with over thinking, over analysis and over mourning of the fact that friends, family and the like are really no help, that they are trapped in cases of their own making and to them, you are not much help either.

The suggested remedy is to simply stop expecting. And then to find something to do.

In cases of severe depression that loneliness brings, making shallow cuts on one's peripheral limbs eases the numbness. As do some drugs that elevate hormone levels in the brain to create a general sensation of percieved well-being and an elevated sense of glee at mundane events such as the rising of the sun, floral arrangements, the apparent and exhibited joys of other people, etc.

Life cycle.

Go, get more dreams
and fantasies of carrying them out;
then fall in love,
get wasted
under starry skies
and purple evenings.

Weeks, days, fireflies in the grass
fly by.
Then end up like
nothing at all.

When I wake up.

Rather like a dream on waking;
In moments
where wakefulness itself
is unaware of being,
I reach out for you
content in half knowledge
and bokeh memories
that disperse with light.

Tattoo a life.

Making queer little lists
of crazy things,
you hope to mark your light
among a billion other
glowing specks.

Eccentricity speaks.
And is sought after.

Gauge into your skin
shapes that are
you and you
alone.

Chisel a place in their world
with ticks
off paper: achievements
we hope will lift
us above the rest.

Find a niche,
crawl into it;
stay put, heads
between knees.
Scared of falling, changing
ending.

And then one day,
cease to be.