"Im just a girl" mindset Vs the Labyrinth

 Twlight- boa

Hello folks,


Today I'm experiencing the psychedelic effects of foreshortened future syndrome. Unfortunately, I think this is an emotion our generation is too aware of and has been made more pressing as we face the Screentime vs Real life pandemic- that basically is shaming people for scrolling too much and creating this fear that we are missing out on such a basic level of life.
I definitely think there are pros and cons to this ideology,
because it is important to receive a good sip of fresh air but I think it's unfair to shame people who primarily create art using technology- It feels hypocritical to have someone who probably spent 3+ hours on a TikTok telling me "I'm wasting my life" by literally watching there TikTok... and it makes the whole balancing life seem impossible.
When being on social moves to the toxic side it is primarily due to the falsification of life.
EX. People have gotten to this point where they only go out with you for a picture and then they plaster all over the media to make it seem like it was a #killertime, yet they barely said one thing to you... idk if I'm just wacky cuz I'm huge on respect but there's nothing that makes a person feel grosser than having a stranger capitalize on your existence for the sole purpose of making their feed look #fetch. (Chloe you just hawt!! and I hope I won't come across as if I am capitalizing on ur beauty)
I just feel like we get this huge fomo because the falsification makes us romanticize having unique experiences while simultaneously keeping us sucked in so have to walk a tight rope of missing out online vs missing out on the rare parts of life.




Idk- I got very off-topic


"You spend your whole life stuck in the labyrinth, thinking about how you'll escape it one day, and how awesome it will be, and imagining that future keeps you going, but you never do it. You just use the future to escape the present."


Today I'm experiencing the psychedelic effects of the foreshortened future syndrome because I recently witnessed something very f*cking disturbing. And I had this moment where I just kept estranging myself from the people around me and filling my head with the top-charting phrase "I'M JUST A GIRL". And it got me thinking about what the phrase actually meant and how it has manipulated the way I think past just being a meme. There was a violent offense that happened and I didn't do anything because I felt powerless. And in that powerless moment, I justified it for just being a f*cking girl pathetic ...
Like I get so sick of consuming shit online that I just start to change my whole thought process behind my belief system and the media is so unfairly catered to people where haft of the people aren't even receiving the same information. IT JUST FEELS IMPOSSIBLE!!! and I just feel so drained from the fuck up shit I see and it's getting to a point where it feels like too much like idk how many more times I have to mutter "Yeah yk its just LIFE!" in response to people just showing basic manners.


A foreshortened Future is "where people feel or believe their life will be cut short without any concrete explanation."


CLOSING NOTES:
I will say I'm in a much better situation and if I was in the same mindset I had, I'd probably lose it for the last time. But it like comforting now to recognize that fucked up shit is happening but there are also like really beautiful things happening. Idk it's comforting that Foreshorten Future is an actual mindset that other people have and the fact it's only a response because you've experienced life so intensely that you fear it being taken away from you at any moment is slightly beautiful.


I hope you all are doing well and taking care of yourself. I think as someone who posts so much on social media even with my small circle of viewers it important to admit to human behaviors and remind people that life isn't always perfect. I think we owe it to the community!


xoxo much l*ve,
katbird02

stop asking questions

 

embarrassment comes in all shapes and all colors,

today mine took form into the shape of brand-new bed sheets

today mine would look nice with a still life of pomegranates, papayas, lemons, and cut-open avocados.

Today I will call it art until I have to call my mother. 

Damn, you, white sheets

Damn, you, women's hood.

Today I woke up pissed, double-fisting American-sized coffee.

Im needing a chemical start.

I truly believe housewives are one of the strongest women, You ever keep you tongue taught for years?  You ever correct yourself daily to the point of protection? were you ever brave enough to become something for the sake of family and the cost of individuality? 

who knows, what they are, or who they are.

 I just know they wouldn't be cursing these damn bed sheets. 

Im gonna order something real cheap, Im gonna wait all night. I'm gonna say it's coming from you. Im gonna act like it's a sin. 

but you died a few years back and this site most likely uses child labor.   

I'm too stubborn to say I already feel bad. 

 

short piece on turning things into horror:

I stood in front of him, a bottled-shaped Skelton topped in golden hair. the apartment walls were bare in old empty photographs. my nails were chipping and scrubbing dirt out of hallway cracks to make this feel more like home. 

Hungry Mother

 In most of my writing, I talk about my mother like a sour taste, you just can't shake. I blamed her for my inability to feel fresh or catered. To be the freshly pressed linens with pose fingernails that smelled like Lana del Reys lyrics in the summertime. I forget more often than not my mother wasn't always placed in a home with stucco walls. She too was born with a suitcase and a DIY self-care attitude. She won't braid my hair and she won't care to learn. 

When reading Pamela Anderson's bio. She wrote something i couldn't seem to just skip by, like the usual "my mother, myself. my father, my mirror" hypnotic good parental bullshit quote. 

she said:

"The best advice my parents gave me

was no advice.

They admitted to knowing nothing

of my world,

my journey

My dreams, passions, and purpose.

They had no way of bailing me out.

They listened,

They worried with me at times,

They loved me the best they could

But it was up to me to find my way through.

When

I understood that,

I was even more free to

create my oven life.

It was a blessing.'

This quote sank to the bottom of me and floated around my gut for days. I lost my voice a long time ago trying to force my parents into understanding, I expanded my vocabulary and catered to my cause with any available literature (music, slam poetry, art... etc), and in the end, I graduated from their homes and was gifted the diploma of "I know nothing of your world". Tho they didn't directly say these straight-arrow words I knew they were the only ones to complete my hunger for acknowledgments and I know now they fed this hunger long before I was capable of recognizing other people's uses of metaphors. 

When I talk about my mother, I always remind the audience of her background. I describe her the way all women who dabble in romanticized ideology would like to be described. She the soft mix between a southern virtue and a European tea party.  But I tend to forget she use to need a suitcase.

My mother wouldn't braid my hair cause she didn't want to learn. if you wanted to feel beautiful you had to chase that train yourself. my mother could teach you how to pin curl you hair with pop cans and sew designer logos on to your pants, but there isn't no way shed teach you anything commercial- she's still learning to smile through ads. 

diffrent takes - an old piece i should have forgotten about :>

"We have the same hands" stuttered out of my mouth and onto the floor. My hands crept around my focal point and I sought him to be the type to kill. He was 11, fragile, hurting, and very alone. He happened to be a boy growing up in a shrinking world. He was made to be the type to kill. Bugs, bats, caterpillars, or my toy dolls. He smashed oranges and bee nests. Crumpled paper planes and loved so hard he couldn't stand the sound of static, placed between him and his father's phone calls. I sought him to be the type to kill. The media made him out to be a real monster.

If my mother would have stepped into my puddle of incompetent metaphors. Shed sweep it up, she was always doing things like that. Every issue, every problem shed shimmy into a dustpan and chucked it straight out the door. Collecting the broken bee wings and melted Polly pockets. I sit there shocked by her inability to step in. But she did what most southern women typically do, and she went south. 

“We have the same blood”, this phrase always seemed to soak itself in every whiskey-ridden syllable, with the southern accents ringing behind. It felt like a long car ride, it felt like when I realized fireflies don't come to my town anymore. I was born improperly, the daughter of a Frat/Narscar/Basketball coke head king of the goddamn South. He was a type of romcom that cheerleaders gagged over. He was my mother's, only love. We use to be cool. My mother made him out to be a real monster. 

If my brother saw the mud pies I make today, I think he'd remember the docks. The moldy wood and when the catfish swarmed our childhood Christmas tree. Tied by its stump. I swear it was plastic, I swear we were church-acquired hicks. True Catholics. I knew that church that boy shot up-Anyways he was 10, my brother was stuck on the diving board across the dock in this giant swampy mass called Lake Norman. This lake was the largest man-made lake located in North Carolina. He wasn't the type to kill, that was the problem. Faced with true danger and impeccable speed he was challenged to outrace a water snake. A vicious, unfaithful, gluttonous beast. He did what most people would do, he sat and cried. 

20 years of hair.

I've decided I don't want this, this glorified depressing romantic life. I stopped doing what was best and stopped looking at the floor. I always hated looking up. Said to be holy but I've seen nothing but defeat. 

I can feel my hair stick to my back, I write a lot more about this- in private of course. 

I can feel my hair fall past my shoulders and the memories feel somewhat grand. Like I've been let into a ritual I finally comprehend. Before, a time like this, id cut all inches off and watch them sept into the floor. I'd decorate myself in some closeted-vintage costume couture. I assumed there was strength in confidence so leather and lethal, to know I was looking at true beauty, to know I could take that thing away. 

to feel my hair lay layered and outgrown upon my back.

to feel it fall off and crack.

In church, they talk about evil and I watch my brother compare women to apples. to temptation, to sin, to the quiet girl who sits upon the boardwalk, between the steples, in the alley, across the street. I trace my hand with my fingers and try to remember that taste. If sin was created because of a bite, mine must have been in the summer, when momma's sunbathing hat blocked my site and my brothers and I ran wild through the orchards, skipping stones and making mud pies. back when the air stuck to ur skin like a good woman's kiss. That must have been it? that must have been back when my hair first grew long enough to lay upon my back. at least before the first major cut.

I can feel my hair sticking to my back and I tried to remind myself women are not apples. 

-cut-

The next time he saw me he laughed at how he could now fit all of it in his hand, how it tangled into mountable shape upon my head. I thought he'd hate it. I thought it would free him from sin. I thought this was a tangible curse. I thought I was the only one lethal to know I still lay underneath these strands. 

I can still feel my hair brushing the back of my neck at this point. 

Outside the gas station, sipping on a supersized American-style pop. I won't tell you what we talked about because that wouldn't be fair. I pushed him off of me n readjusted my socks, shoes, and shorts as I often did when we talked. I pulled the strands ever so carefully out of those fraying jeans and we both kinda just squinted at each other through the blazing sun. 

I carry a lot of old wives' tales in my pocket like a gun. and he must have known this one well. he seemed relieved when I told him I only cut off the bad. He pulled on my hair one last time and I rolled the windows down completely. 

I can feel my hair stick to my back, I write a lot more about this because I don't want this glorified romantic depressing life because I can't keep trimming my hair and cutting my ends in protest to this idea that relation is only due to beauty and beauty is only the creation of deception. There is so much more I seek than misfits and miscalculated conversations about Adam and Eve. There's so much more I want to tell you about my growth when I tell you:

I can feel my hair stick to my back

xoxo 

papercut kneecaps  

may 4th 2022

 

I am my father's daughter. I am the addiction that runs through icy-cold veins. I am a cigarette sitting crooked in a fourteen-year-old girl's mouth. I am the things my mother begged me not to be. 

 Hey guys,

it's me, the girl who can't figure out a name. I decided to cut the bullshit today, ridden my riddles..I wanted to come on here and be real about this site, when I first started I was kinda using it in a more personal way. It was my "give all be all", I wrote with curiosity, shame, and excitement and this incompatible amount of genuine belief in myself. Im not sure that's something I'd agree to say anymore, I was 17 then I'm going to be 20. I claim to be a negative romantic- street-smart comedic psychopath, Im witty as I am dumbfounded. But I am extremely stubborn, I never try at anything I can't do right. I am the best GOD DAMN mediocre Artist, writer, server, barista, and cashier that you ever did meet. And this was the time I truly tried. But now writing has become an old hobby I tuck to bed each night and spoon-feed some haft ass chilly too.

This is to say, that I haven't given up on this site, I consistently write and write and pray for the courage to post, but with those 15 unseen drafts, they've become 15 unseen documents of shame. Im not sure how I gathered so much hate but I did and unfortunately it's something I'm going to have to carry around till I learn how to forgive and realize my own faults. I think a lot.

Im just a girl, that you call a blogger. I have so much talent and admiration for justice, I just don't know how to speak anymore, maybe it's because people became more real, maybe it's because I don't stay, maybe it's cause I'm a blogger, and I'm doing this on purpose. Maybe it's cause I'm losing traction. I'll be leaving soon, it feels shitty to take 10 steps back but it's the only option i have.

I'm going to Sedona today. 

can you guess my name? 

female rage

 If I was female rage madonna would hate me.

My mouth would foam green Drano and my nails would curl with yellowing tips. If I was female rage id collapse to melancholy women with guitars. 

I find myself turning inward into this so-called "female rage". I find myself naked in front of self-appointed righteousness. Being female rage is not the act itself- but rather holding yourself back from the urge to be reckless. In my observation of women, I found that the most collected women hold the most resentment from the need to break. They push the brick wall back until there nails are chipped and bitter. The arms feel weightless in numbness. They crack in fragments, they crave female rage. They redo their lipstick. They find themselves turning inward. 

If the female range was my closet, it would be freshly open nylons. press on nails, melted lipstick and a fraying sweater. my female rage would look like a nicotine packet. Yours may look like rehab, church, or your muse. 

ill attach myself to any version I still get from you. 

compostion blog

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.

7/5/22: a piece from phoenix

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. 

signed, 

                     whatever you need

_______________________________

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. 

mudpies

 The house is being eaten up by dirt and clothes that burst through the god damn door. And all of a sudden the rooms flip inward-turns sideways and this so-called home has a woman from the past, the self-proclaimed mother who lives under piles of dirt. I know she's not really there, but I still feel her pace around these hallways, pushing crumbs to the side with each shuffling step. I don't feel bad, in this house, I feel like my brother, each time a nat swings around my head and a bird nests in my hair. Crazy to the public but rational by cause. The food molts away on the coffee table and I am reminded of all the ways I was taught to improv nourishment.

 Maybe this house isn't really a house but rather a theater, and the people who come and go are testing the cast. Seeing how far each member can take, see if they break, go off the script, and fold into their true selves.  how shameful it is to be anything but pretend. to be a woman who is claimed battered after months of shoving shit into a splitting closet. how rationalized it is to be so pissed for feeling so used.

--------->

I wrote this a couple of weeks ago, thought id share. kinda reminds me of when your a child and you try to conince yourself mud pies are more then just dirt and water. ironic. 

church vs rehab

I want to go to church, and not in some summer fulfill my fleabag desires.

redhibition always knew how to shapeshift itself into the family. I always knew I wasn’t bad enough to stay but not stubborn enough to believe in something bigger than myself. and so the punch line remains in unholy tap-water I gulped at the rounds ups. filled with Wolfpack-driven parents and the idea that there is loneliness in communion.

I long to hear the metaphoric roars of the wolf pack as their mouth waters over the survival to the next moon. 

to be part of a community that thrives off the idea of existing and living and doesn’t ask me to empty more parts of this decaying body. because there is no metaphoric phrase that sums up the fact that life can be complete shit.

to be a part of the religion of oneself, to be able to create something with all the bad that looks conventionally good in your resume. to be more than just a girl with a mouth wide open begging for the world to fuck me over once again. 

I don’t go to church the same way I don’t go to therapy. there is nothing more theatrical than standing in front of a series of people and begging them to grant you worthy enough. so I began the session with my legs crossed over and my hair brushed behind my ear. and gloss over the idea that all of this made me stronger. and I know what shell says before I speak these words into existence. the same way the priest had told me.

they pick n choice whether I'm crippled with addition to limerence desires the same way I'm crippled with religious beliefs. as if me asking the world to grant me some sort of affection dealt with sex along. as if I got off to religious neglect and relationships altogether.

I sweat orange juice. my father's drug addiction and my mother's need to be smaller each time I enter her house.

each time I think of it, I am only a stranger biting the inside of my cheek. this is no GOD. this is only upbringing, this is only forgetting, this is creating a need for religion to excuse my need to keep running. God is not therapy and therapy is not god. I am only a serious of memories begging to last long enough for u to click. 

I want to go to church. I want to go to rehab. I want to go somewhere where people can dress up as a family and I can finally stop asking strangers for an extra seat at their holiday dinner. Unless I am all wrong. Unless I am the last of my kind, an orphan, an empty soul. 

Song- Every time the sun comes up

church, therapy, family, and conversation are the times I play dress-up and pretend to be a more put-together person than I really am, 

Kneecaps

Black mold sneaks into your pruning veins. the chalkboard is splitter and her knees will give out any second. You fold into a box and shift yourself to a new persona. confusing days for previous years and lose yourself to the hands of the man in the mirror.  if you were to ask me, I would tell you the end is near and the fake flowers on my dashboard are inching towards wilting. but you don't ask, you don't even have a tongue to mold words together. 

It's a Thursday, and I am dancing to songs you would definitely hate. but this forbidden cure makes a restless body shake. and soon I will be decorated in white linens and you will claim that's just who I've always been. an outgoing ghost who cant find the remote to turn off the god damn tv.  and now the news is playing in record-breaking frequences, and the music is making the people in the town's ears bleed. and her or i's knees will shatter in their sleep. 

but forgive me, i am only as simple as you have always perceived me.

katbird lost her tongue 

im loving your skin darling

 The world came crashing down at the same time every year.  My small hands broke like glass and I became exactly who I was. I turn 19 in a few days and all I can think about is how I never fully lived through any of it. I taught myself when I was small and fragile how to keep running. I used blades, diets, drugs, cigarettes, and alcohol to call it "living". I avoided everything until it came crashing down, just to ignore it all over again.

I turn 19 in a few days and all I can think about is how it never got better. how I became a cup with a pinprick in the bottom, and every chance I had to become human again slowly slipped out of me. 

We are not only all the years we have to come, but also all the years we were. 

I clenched onto this glass cup. and I can't help but hate myself for never allowing myself to live, to love, to be something other than fucked memories. I signed my name to every assault after lawn gnome and all I became was what had happened. There is nothing left for me than more unconventional times. 

Vienna- Billy Joel 

When I'm Small- Phantogram

Take off your pants - Indigo De Souza 

im gonna be honest, i meant to tell you,. i cant stop 

katbird02 

happy birthday 

 unfucktheworld by angel olsen

change your name

 Before the people of the community, judge, cringe, laugh or sour my name with unfiltered words about my desperate attempt to become a person again. I wanted to remind you, my family and friends, that I too was a child.  

As much as I hate this blog and its depressing cliche. I am only able to write about my thoughts. I no longer have the ability or freedom to review bands and artists. I am captivated by secretsisty. My location, my friends. my life now is something I cannot completely share with the world. All of the things I once was and loved are now, just out of reach. I am an unknown person, an introduction under allies, with a forever-changing name.  every friend I held before also held the risk for my safety. My name will forever be signed to assault. my introduction to potential jobs will hold a warning and pleads for them not to contact my previous employer. My phone will constantly be a reminder of stalking. My childhood will be nostalgic for its inhabited moments. 

I do not forgive you.

I"'m not who I am to anyone, no, not me at all
I'm not who I am to anyone these days, not at all

The skyline falls as I try to make sense of it all
I thought I'd uncovered your secrets but turns out there's more"

 

- good looking by suki waterhouse

 As depressing and unrecognizable I have become, this does not mean there is no hope of becoming a person again. I can fake a persona and fill my life with melodramatic relationships to distract myself from the turning in the back of my throat or I can attempt, in needed change and listen to the idea that not all hurricane events can destroy a person completely. There are still cells and atoms in me. there is still a chance for survial.  I will wear the stolen yellow bikini top from my mother's vintage collection. I will paint my eyelids will black liner and wait for the hot sun to melt it down my face. I will live in secretisty, but I will still live. 

I do not forgive you. Aaron Johnson. 

-katbird02 

vodka and twisted teas.

 

You never know how much you miss something you never received. 

It is a Friday night and you are gifted an experience of admiration and confusion. A soft pink dress made of aged antique silk holds you back. your feet remember the art of walking. your palms are filled with fresh ombre flowers. You think of this as a metaphor a gift from the beginning of time- a color clashing story of how you had changed yet stayed the same. Tonight you dance outside a roaring bar in the street. tonight your feet are in sync. 

I think I had forgotten how to breathe. became a bed brittle version of myself so compliant with others' desires. but how incredibly relieving it is to be able to have all of your thoughts read. your metaphorical thought process doesn't shapeshift into an argument. The mind reader sees your knotted thoughts and listens with wide child-like eyes.  the mind reader has taken time to learn the lyrics to songs you swore by. the reader sings them in the car. listens to your poetry, stories, and blogs as you read them aloud. the reader buys you flowers in color clashing palms. and that is enough. 

It is so simple to be kind to people, yet the majority of people take until there is nothing left to give. 

-katbird02

I had genuine fun. thank you. 

Hiding under a peach

 hey so... I'm a sneaky bitch. I stopped writing publicly for the past 6 months cause I switched over to a more personal and underground blog format.. and today I've decided to choose a couple posts and discuss them. Maybe cause I'm bored.. maybe cause I wanna do something for myself. 

disclaimer: since it's been a year, I've decided to remind all of you readers.. that I don't do this for you... so my grammar and spelling errors will not be adjusted.. and none of this will make sense. 

Okay also.. all of these are very cringe but I'm a person and I'm being open about my views. so whatever..

WELCOME TO PEACH

basically- I was depressed. just joking.. To be honest, even as badly as I treated my body growing up, I had never really experienced ongoing illness or had been so stressed that my body invented one. And I think that this day was the first time I really realized I couldn't keep treating my body like shit. As much of a yoga mom, I sound like... It fucking terrified me to my core. And I think that I had reached a point where I was so tired and exhausted I couldn't get through the day without telling myself it was fake and I was actually having a bad dream. I don't know, as cringe as this post was, I think it was a good observation of what I considered my life at that point. 

This entree is a repetition in all of my writting. the idea of this cycle of grief that keeps giving and how lonely it is to watch yourself lose feeling for things you loved over time and become so unsure of yourself.  I also think this relates a lot to the song "stone" by Born without bones but from the empty person's perspective. idk as a person in a clock-work society, I feared becoming robotic and a southern stereotype as I started losing myself to routines. 

Okay, so this one is my absolute favorite. I remember that even as messy and unmanaged the situation was I still thought it was utterly beautiful. and that's all I have to say. 

thank you for coming out tonight.. I hope you enjoyed the performance. I don't really care though if you didn't. -katbird02

December 7th 2021 drafted

 I haven't written in a while since my fingers froze cold. It's funny how all the things you love can turn up empty. I used to think I was gifted in that way, in which I could shut off myself to existence. shapeshift me into a new person. I use to refer to all of myself in the third person, each experience that was too heavy to deal with got stuck with an old version of myself. But things will continue to happen and there will be less of me than there was in the morning. 

I didn't understand the issue at first. when things happened it was all slow, targeted issues. I first forgot my oldest brother and left the smallest version of myself with him. I called it grieving while alive. I left my mother, and my father and signed their names to all the traumatic instances they could have prevented. Yet how do you escape a whole society? everybody surrounding you just sitting and watching you trying to pull yourself out of quicksand, how impossible it is not to blame them.

At first, I thought I was tired, grown out of old friendships, effects of time, and the lack thereof. But no, the truth of the matter was I desperately wanted to want them, yet couldn't forgive them for what they have done. 

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Okay so I wrote this a while ago, and I think it kinda explains a section of my last entree better. 

I mean what I'm trying to say is that after lawn gnome I was in a horrible position and I couldn't separate the people I cared for from the situation (which is an ongoing issue in my persona). And with the mention of the wounded person, I was attempting to describe how it felt personal for leaving everyone. Like I had sabotaged myself and then painted this idea of strength for getting out of that town. 

Girl, Interpreted

 Today, I have decided to write again. 

A poet once said that a wounded person does not crave a bottle, a cigarette, or a pipe full of addiction but rather the need and urge to be hurt again. We become so consumed in the idea of the pain that we ache for the next spill of blood,  and I don't particularly think the wounded person is seeking this for the pain itself but for what comes after. or what I like to call a false sense of "freedom", a position of being so far gone there is nothing left to do but live for yourself. 

"You think you're free? I'm free! You don't know what freedom is! I'm free! I can breathe! And you... you're gonna choke on your average fucking mediocre life!"-Lisa  (girl, interrupted 1999) 

I remember as a middle schooler this quote had a chokehold on my personality. I looked at my life in front of me and the cursive carved pain and thought- that even as unhinged this character was- and even the irony that shaped this quote. I thought it was the perfect definition of "strength/willpower". and I lived by it, thought my ability to move on as quickly as I built something made me more of a person. I ran through people differently than most and became so close just to disappear completely. I thought I was smart, able to read the person before they even understand themselves. I'm not internally sure if I ever was.

Today, I have decided to write again.

I've decided to write again because I had forgotten about individuality. Became the type of serotype I hated. The type of person too afraid to let go, the uncertainty in their ability to be only their own. and even though I don't believe there is any more freedom in loneliness, I do believe that it allows you to understand that there are bones in your wrist and that those bones have the ability to move and with the motion, you have the ability to live. Not just for your person, your mom, your friends, and your family. But completely for yourself. 

The poet wasn't wrong. And even though it paints a shitty portrait of myself. It got me far enough to build things, even if I left them. It allowed me to dance to old music in a motel. It allowed me to want to break a stereotype. It protected me when I need protection and was done completely for myself. You may call me unfiltered words to comfort you in abandonment or hatred for your loneliness. But I will continue to thank you for the memories you allowed me to take up space in. 

-papercutkneecaps/teddy/chip/hannah

-I always read the title of the movie "Girl, Interrupted" as "Girl, Interpreted" and I think it's more fitting. To be interrupted is to be stopped, to lose motion. To be interpreted is to think about the theory of who we are. The character didn't stop living because her shit hit the wall, she just started realizing why. - 

anyways thank you for reading.. not sure if yall wanted me back... but idc im back. also none of my writting ever makes sense