shadowfax913

it's dark out and thunder's rumbling. 10:48 and the sky seems unable to decide whether or not it wants to empty itself - it's in a sort of strange in between, threatening to pour, sending gusts of wind whistling through these concrete boxes we live in but indecisive and not actually doing any harm or good. it's the sort of air one drowns in - tropical rain, the haziness of early october smoke, half-formed thoughts, with the horizon and surface to breathe drifting further and further away with every thought. and there's nothing i can do about it. lately, these fleeting, inconsequential thoughts are all my brain has had to to spew at me. graspi

if our feelings were gardens, some would be parched barren patches of yellowed grass - no careful cultivation, never given a spare thought, buried near the back of our minds in hidden corners, just something to be ashamed of. others grow wild, their tendrils increasingly venomous, with gardeners who gave up long ago with sighs and a bullet to the brain. we who venture through them find ourselves lost and drowning brought too close to our souls and so we harden our hearts, slam close the doors, lose the keys strip ourselves clean and bare till we're skeletal structures, ornamental trimmed bushes just for show

and there she was, attempting to wring droplets of a vague sense of normalcy from a parched existence. and she knew, with a guilt that was almost overwhelming, that she really shouldn't be at it again because who was she to whine, complain, or even feel that way – viewing life behind glass panels, drawn curtains, stone walls, naive and inexperienced, with droplets and hapless streams of thought and emotion that were barely hers. she had so much going for her, so much 'potential', and she was thoroughly sick of it, these extrapolated expectations and seemingly non-existent entities. self-denial. suffer? what suffering? perhaps it was just