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Availed in the states of perpetual dread, a light omen asks to lessen the burden of a few. The angry metaphor, a modest spirit of death; give it round before you utter its name. 

“To the provider of all wondrous things that I have deemed thus ever essential - my dream will become the plan for the ever.”
What you pray to is given power under the ghost of the malevolent sun. 

For all your sins of hardly knowing better, the laugh that unhinges the weight of your soul; the funniest thing you’ll ever bless is the parody of filth beneath the stone. 

A dream carried me through the streets I could piece together from the many rides taken about the mid-city. Homes, too large for any conscious necessity, planted with gates too far from the door. Life exists as a spectacle, nearly, but from the person on the street it looks like hell. If there exists any presence among it, I imagine the perspective would peel its shell. 

Frankly, what the fuck am I? 

My ties to that city are always appearing wholesome but the moment the fact of it comes up I realize that I am always alone. A word flies carelessly and it sits between the rest of all the painfully conscious ideas - I address it and see a problem that I cannot undo. I never got to answer the question of what they would do if I found myself on the floor. The only one that ever answered that was someone I can’t talk to anymore. She said…she didn’t care, and that she’d be with me always. 

I really put that to the test, and it certainly wasn’t that shame that made a change come about. Letting the ache pass, it’s clear how fragile everything really is; and all the states of consciousness detail the struggles I have never known. 

“Walk with me, to the garden of Eden. There is no eternal life here, save for what has always been in perpetuity. The persistence you crave is…a malady, a terrifying affliction reserved for those who simply exist, without. Sit here, and behold…everything you will never have. 

You can be a part of this, you can be here for the ever. Simply toil without end until this higher power, a boon upon you, should bestow. You are weak, you could be strong - tend my garden under the sun.”

All I can hear and see is the flicker of a flame at the end of a wet rag and bottle. Both hands peeled back before the star ever-lasting:
I refuse to concede, though I have never won. 

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The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath
I knew I should be grateful too Mrs. Guinea, only I couldn’t feel a thing. If Mrs. Guinea had given me a ticket to Europe, or a round-the-world cruise, it wouldn’t have made one scrap of a difference to me, because wherever I sat- on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok- I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.
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You gave me something that I could not achieve on my own. You gave me a subject into which I can write hundreds of pages of content. You gave me a purpose whereas before I was just dragging my feet through life, writing about this and that and the other thing as they came to me—putting it all on my phone where no one would see it, hidden for the rest of my life. There and gone, their purpose fulfilled, gone into a stack of old newspapers and magazines by the garage. Then: you! Hollywood at its fiercest. Everyone and everywhere and every channel devoted to me, of all people. Sort of. Of course, my name was never used, and I suppose that that was a blessing in disguise because I was not ready to be discovered yet. I think I’ll hang onto my anonymity for awhile longer yet, thank you. Just know that you are one of the rare ones to discover me and witness my early chance at fame, which I totally bombed, by the way.

But next time will be different. There will be no catching me off guard. There will be no more stages set by you with me as the unwitting dullard surrounded on all sides by fame and celebrity. I will pick up your scent from a mile away this time. There is no trick that you can use on me that you have not already tried. There is nothing that you can offer to me that was more valuable than the money that I so freely gave away. If you come again to follow me in my life, know this: your presence is unwanted. My self-respect is superior to anything I feel for celebrities, and my self-respect is not all that great anyway.

Yes, that includes you: Cranston, Cumberbatch, Radcliffe, McGraw.

As to everyone else who has had a hand in harassing me, you know who you are.

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I hope you remember the parades rather than the sirens

The laughter that filled the air rather than the fear

The sacrifices of heroes rather than the lies of tyrants


I hope you remember all the songs you sang to soothe 

Despite the closing of your throat and an aching chest

Despite the hyperbolic news and your depressed mood


I hope you remember that this time wasn’t permanent 

Though the path ahead was so vague and unclear

Though the thought of it caused a paranoia event 


I hope you burn this time within your mind

And remember it melted away the delusion 

But remember your wish to the universe 


I hope you do remember this time

May you never become complacent again

May you remain hopeful about the shifting paradigm 

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There have been moments I knew were important, where I’d pause and tell myself to hold onto this perfection for as long as possible. I didn’t take any pictures, I didn’t jot down any notes. I just took an imprint with my mind.

So now, I can visit these moments anytime I want. I’ve noticed time makes me more forgiving, and thoughts have a way of softening the rough edges.

What may have only been 5 or 10 seconds of handholding in a car on a sunny day, wearing a dress that exposed too much of my thigh, feeling the warmth of the sun. The windows down, strands of my hair touching my face, slipping on my lips as I laughed, leaves of the country road making shadows on my brown soft thighs. These 5 or 10 seconds, we can linger there for as long and as often as we’d like.

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b.t. - excerpt from “A Wishful Story”
I want the forests to be magic, for one day the healing to escape the ground and come up over everything, breathing as the wind, coursing and blowing through the leaves. It will dance through rivers and as we drink its waters, we too will heal, and we will remember the magic that once was buried in us, now resurrected.
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My chest

It crackles

When you put your ear against it.

I know you’re searching for my heart beat, but I haven’t been able to find it myself in quite some time now.

The crackling, it’s fluid in my lungs, just one more piece of evidence that I’m really out here drowning.

I wish I knew how to explain the way my brain wraps around a thought like a

tight hug.

No, a squeeze?

No, a death grip.

It resurfaces again and again like a pebble caught in these waves

These thoughts they drown me.

I think our one uniting factor is that we’re all looking for some air to breathe.

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