this sucks

“Well…this is unfortunate.”

ばたいてく 君からDaybreak

they say it’s darkest before dawn, but I’ve been sitting in the freezing cold blackness waiting for the sun to peak over the horizon just the tiniest bit for two years, now. i don’t think aurora will raise her head anymore.

Nothing was ever meant to be mine

Oh, every day and every night
Persistin’ pain and the criminal mind
Nights the beating of my heart kept me up
The mournful crescent moon hung beyond the window
I do wish me a lovely night…
Where’s my end finally gonna be?
Everything’s so exhausting, from A to Z
When’s this wretched mask finally gonna come off?
Yeah, me no hero, me no villain
I’m barely anything
Idling repeats, memories turning vicious
Lying in a field, I set my sights on the skies
Now, I can’t remember what I wanted so badly
I trusted I was happy, now a mere memory

broken wings

I don’t know how things got the way they are…but I hate them. I hate this. I don’t know why it’s like this or why nobody fucking talks to one another to fix things and I just…I hate it here. Hate it hate it hate it so much.

and i hate
and i hate
and i hate
and i hate elevator music
the way we fight
the way i’m left here silent

I’m trying to write it out, to make sense of it, but the words are as caught inside like caged tigers, just like the tears. I’m so fucking tired.

I’m sad.

i can’t reach you

give me life
give me pain
give me myself again

Twitter’s a racist cesspit, more news at five.

Trying to reason with and be kind to people who only have two braincells, a football, and a MAGA hat is a waste of time. Just going to hit block from now on; it’s better than hurling insults, I guess. You can’t have a battle of wits if your opponent comes unarmed and proud of it.

lost child stumbles in the dark

yes, indeed, new address, same blog, so on so forth. why? reasons. good reasons? heaven knows. what’s good and bad anymore, in 2020?

I really wish I could write a lifestyle blog that was…I don’t know, picture perfect and I had a face that leant itself to photography and I had endless amounts of energy to live an Instagram life, but I don’t. I am tired. I’m exhausted, constantly, which no, probably is not medically safe, but welcome to life with mental illness: any and every physical illness you have is blamed on that. I wish I was kidding.

“oh, you’re excessively tired? it’s because of the schizophrenia.”

no. I am excessively it-hurts-to-even-sit-up tired and I have schizophrenia. why is that so hard to grasp? if I fall down the stairs and break my ankle, will you say that was because of the schizophrenia, too? so I might as well just wait for it to heal without any help?

but, as the song goes…
so you’re a doctor, and I am just a crazy little girl (who will you believe?)

I want to write strong and poetic and inspiration-porn-esque things about being brainsick, but I can barely keep my mind in a straight line long enough to say anything. and then, really, there’s nothing to say. nothing worth saying, really. “I woke up and within an hour I crept back into bed, because it was physically painful to sit at my desk. repeat.”

I could lie on all fronts, I suppose, but…what’s even the point, if none of it’s true? why not just write a novel instead?

to create is my only outlet, anymore. I don’t have a life outside this, since the disease took almost everything I loved from me. my life. I have to rebuild totally.

so I will sweep myself up in fandom, in sewing, in coding, in Middle-earth, in dolls, in magic, in poetry, and in my own vanity and lunacy. I will lose myself in a crystal ball of a closed world, tiny and worth nothing to anyone else except me. fault me if you will; but really, what else would you have me do? wait aware of the rot? if I must rot, then I will do it with my mind in a million other elsewheres, and I maintain this is escape, and thus sanity. and then, perchance…I might not rot at all.

“I will make everything around me beautiful. That will be my life.”
and it will be beautiful by my standards. my life will be art on my own terms.