What’s it like to grow up?
Do you notice it like the way you notice the bags under your eyes when you first wake up? Is it like a killer migraine after a night of being drugged up? Fucked up?
Or is it like a germinating seed, just sown 1/4 ” deep, blooming on the night of a midsummer’s eve?
Is it beautiful? Does it feel good? Does the world make more sense now?
Does it hurt? Did it always hurt or did it hurt when you finally decided to grow up?
Do you choose if you grow up or not?
Can you stop it from happening? Should you stop it from happening?
I think it’s like a beauty trend. The next hot seller, fresh out the market, the most popular thing to wear during summer. And we obsess like there’s no tomorrow, grabbing greedily at something we don’t even understand. We think we do, but we don’t.
No one can comprehend the responsibility of growing up. No one can take the responsibility of compensating all the petty white lies, heart breaks and heart aches, migraines, and empty promises. The cold stares, being unawares, hollow kisses, and negligence. No gift of money or proud compelling or acceptance can heal what has been severed and mangled.
And you ask me, ‘”What should I do?”‘
I cannot give you an answer to your question, unfortunately. Because what you asked is something a “grown up” should already know what to do.
My heart goes still as the walls of my temple crumble, as my knees buckle beneath me
I can still feel my sight blurring, my lips trembling,
a burning 500 degrees that spreads across the face like a hay fever, a wild fire.
I remember the stiffest of nods and straightest of faces, ignorance painted over my mouth and eyes so thick enough to give me lead poisoning.
I can’t stand to hear her voice in my head,
it drives me mad with a pleasure to see her die, a desire to see her break down and cry
to see the mascara smudge into her eyeballs and blood veins webbing towards her pupils
to slather and scramble her insides with my bare hands, her organs mixed up puzzle pieces I wave across the floor as messily as I can.
But she is in one piece, alive and healthy, hated by few and loved by many.
I wish I could say I never loved her, that I never worshipped her beauty and envied her tongue,
but that is all a lie.
Because in the end, even if I crave her blood, I crave her attention much, much more.
I told him
I don’t believe in happy endings,
I don’t believe in joy,
But he laughed and said
I was being silly
Because he sees me smile so often
I rolled my eyes and looked at him straight,
My eyes boring into his own,
And what he saw made his grin drop
And so he left me alone.
Good evening, dear followers. To find that my loved ones have heard my call fills me with more honor and joy than any creature can ever possess in their lifetime.
I am pleased to welcome you, my heathens, into my temple. Though it is no Garden of Earthly Delights, trust that it is a place more welcoming than the world that surrounds you daily.
We are the unorthodox. We are the ones that will remember the remnants of life itself even when it has long past us. We carry the sound and feelings of memory within our very core, only for it to be offered back to the universe when it finally needs us once more.
My dearest heathens, rejoice, for you now represent something greater. We are something more, but then again, you always were.
I’ll keep it brief, my dear ones, for there are many other things that must be spoken of elsewhere.
She was fierce as feral flames, fangs without the jaw, a burning star, a speeding car, sounds of fire crackles and familiar music. Each strand of hair upon her head held a story doused in color, her eyes hypnotic and starving for every experience this world can offer her.
Each turn of the Sun was a metamorphosis and every peek of the Moon a chance to howl and scream into the night, a grin spread wide.
Summer and sand favored her heels, leaving dusty hot imprints on the balls of her feet. Across the heat, as fast as air can bring her, she rushes towards unfamiliar depths, nearly fearless of the blue, nearly fearless to die.
Scars on her elbows and knees and palms would sink in salted water and leave peeled off bandages as a path to follow later on.
The child of Sweeping fire and Summer Echoes, may your days in the sun be ever hot and bright. And as you walk past the shimmering shores and muggy mid-day fog, may the fish guide you from the sea as well as up above.
He is of fair face, fair as willow maiden hair and a voice once kin to the wind, but captured and enveloped within the most delicate of wind pipes.
They say he moves like windchimes, pleasantly swaying to where ever he sees fit, only to return in one piece when the orchestra of adventurous air ceases to play.
Skin like oil paint, smooth and perfectly toned to capture every length of celestial light, no matter where he turns.
And tangling between his fingers and spilling from his lips, light blotches of softened petals bloom on the branches of saliva from his mouth.
They cascade down his figure from an inky fountain within his mind, endless and ever-growing, a deep, dense coal-toned abyss that brings life to every feature of his always changing body.
He is a prince; a prince of ink stains and soft wind, Of delicate lifeforms with black-bolded bones,
Of intertwined words that slip the mind, only for him to draw them back deep inside.
Hello Heathens. It’s time to consider some things, particularly the things that make you a heathen or not.
I cannot just let any meandering soul into my home. My home, my temple is no open-house party and I’m sure any creature can understand the sacredness of that.
So now it is time for a test.
For my heathens, show me a flower. The first flower you see when you step outside. Show it to me however you wish, but I must see it. I will know if you are lying to me.
For the rest of you, partaking in this is none of your concern. Simply click on this blog, read a sentence, and leave as you usually do.
Heathens, you have 3 days to complete this.