I've been caring around a composition book that id likes to call a composition blog. I got the book because I was trying to figure out how to untangle all the thread I push into my pocket. Only to find, I wasn't going crazy, I just turned my mother into a notebook. Processed all the things I wanted to say to her, and ask for her help with. Yet the book never talks back. the book just sits there carrying all of your thoughts and feelings and shows you the ends to all of your loose ties. The book does not wish for you to be better and doesn't take a selfish aspect, or tell you how to live your life. the book just is a book, that you call a blog.
I made the book the same reason I made the blog, I needed something to figure out everything and if I put enough focus into one thing, maybe everything would just work.
During my time away from myself, I went to the mall. The mall is a beautiful confusing place that can make you fall to your knees in complete submission to all of the glitter and carefully placed threads. But the mall also has the power to make you hate everything about yourself. The beautifully hung emerald green silk dress hangs over your body like moss in the yellow flickering dressing room. Not to say moss is not beautiful- it is. Moss just looks bad because it's on your body, and your body makes silk look rough and patchy. I guess what I'm trying to say is I think I finally understand what people mean when they say they "love me", I think they are calling me a mall. I think they admire me for how I stimulate their needs and entertain their free time. Only to find out I'm just a mall, a building, something to hold an assortment of things. I think everyone's a mall, I just think we carry things differently. I think it's valid for you to hate me. I created a false emotion that only left you with a mirror to look at all your faults
hey maybe if this book wasn't a book but rather a person, maybe they'd be a vintage shop. carrying old memories or whatever is important to you. The Composition Shop.
7/7/22: waiting for the water to break
there is no worse version of myself than the summer. When I was much smaller, I spent my time at the lake, I spent my time raising ducks and dogs, and fishing hooks. I spent my time casting dreams and jumping from diving boards, swimming away from the snakes. But as small and faithful as I once was. I prayed for the growing mass above his bed to break, for god to induce a natural phenom- to be a child who was saved.
7/9/22: The bystanders' drug addiction
the fans are getting too loud. today I broke the bystander's addiction and placed him in my honorable robe. he told me over (I presumed shakey hands that cast banner above my screen). That I- have passed him in my drug intake. Everything is alright, I made myself crazy, this is something I can claim, there are two types of things. I can't seem to remember it. it became sappy soaked and broken. all poets have fist fought w this type of battle. I wish I could play guitar, id wishes you could sit silently n listen. I wish i didn't need this god damn journal.
my credits, no good. I'm, not A drug addict I was just worse in the summer, with nobody to talk to but a book.
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