it’s beginning, it’s beginning, it’s beginning

“tell me about it,” my sister asked a few weeks ago.

i responded by mumbling and laying dramatically on the kitchen chair, which by the way, is the hardest thing to sit on for days at a time. “i don’t know how.”

“well you’re gonna have to figure it out if you’re posting about it.”


“it” in this case is referring to a very cool person’s book that’s coming out in a couple days or months, give or take, and by now you should know that cool person’s name, which is weez, and her book, the lightest heaviest things, or at least heard *some* kind of iteration of the concept known as subpar art. if you remain oblivious, well. i feel sorry for you. and will probably enlighten you by yeeting a copy at your face.

anyway, weez must’ve made the mistake of entrusting me with something, because she asked me to help her out with throwing books at people’s faces getting tlht out to the people, whoever the people may be. and i must’ve made the mistake of assuming i could, because the next thing i knew i was swiping through a copy for review and going “what what whAT” for an hour.

so anyway, here’s me figuring this out and here’s the book of potential cult classic status, per weez’s interview with clara (read that or i will fight you).

roll film.

“The trees are tall, and the giants are not actually taller than the trees. You told me that the giants aren’t real. I don’t know if they’re real. They look real, to me, but they also don’t seem real. You don’t see them, either.”

Peri, alone in her house, has spent a lot of time observing the silent, strangely sad giants that move just on the edge of her vision. They never speak. They never laugh. They are always alone. Drowning in her own loneliness, Peri doesn’t think much about where the giants came from, or what they might need from her.

When Peri’s best friend Wink starts seeing the giants too, though, they decide that they need to find out why the giants are so sad and alone. This sets them off on a quest that neither of them is quite prepared for, through the woods and up the mountain.

Magic, melancholy, and myth collide in their lives, showing them a world both worse and better than they ever knew.

It’s beginning.


the atmosphere. HHHHH. i’m a sucker for the ambience of a place, and the lightest heaviest things did not disappoint in that regard. there’s many ways the stereotypical country story can go stale, but the way this one went was refreshingly simple and yet heartwarming, like a place you’ve seen before but don’t really know. the instant i read through the first few pages i remember thinking “yep. i wanna explore this place a little more.”

the characters. peri, the main character and the newest fictional love of my life needs a HUG. i admired her complexity and really connected to her fears and thoughts and the way she saw her world. the little details weez spun along the journey and the way she revealed peri’s story bit by bit was very cool, to say the least. wink is a fascinating best friend/foil character that has a lot of pluck and nerve and also needs a hug. she reminds me of samwise gamgee’s character but with childhood angst, as we all tend to have. ull, my dude, is a friendly hungry magic kid with excellent rhyming skills, and i would’ve liked to have met him. his arc is bittersweet, and i think it was very well done. all of the kids have a lot of story that gets revealed through the people they meet, that for a moment it’s like they could be real kids.

the dialogue. the oneliners and quips and back and forths were hilarious. to prove my point:

“we’re going to save the giants.”

“we’re on a quest.”

“we’re hungry.”

*chef’s kiss* i rest my case.

this banter and the humor behind it carries on throughout the story in a very endearing way, and i simply don’t have enoug hwords to say how much i like it. it’s just that good. go read it for yourself.

would’ve liked

more backstory. i think the plot is solid in terms of how engrossed can you get in a book and end up crying a few dozen times, but could’ve done with having more exposition, more details, more development into each character and the world they interact in and with. there’s so much for potential and if anything this feels like a teaser of being so close and yet not close enough to actually entering paper and ink and living in that world ourselves.

giants. i say this because even though the giants are peri’s catalyst and a big part of the book, and even though we get descriptions of them and why they’re here, i didn’t feel like i saw them exactly? that may be something left to each reader, that may be something that comes with rereading, and that may be because all that needed information will come somewhere else. who knows?

just more in general. everything in this book was great, full stop. no denying that. but i think in the way a bunch of little kids want to know what’s next when someone tells them a story, readers of this one will be absorbed enough to demand more, simply because it’s at a level that can only get better with more of it. so go read it and get weez to write another one because i won’t be able to rest otherwise *nods seriously and gets attacked with incoming pillows*


this book feels like childhood. it feels like growing up and adventure and food and friends and running and bravery, sadness and pain and fear and all of these elements of our younger selves woven into magic and fantasy and it feels nostalgic, and it feels foreign, and it feels right, and it feels like this search for home, like coming home.

but in many ways, it’s a beginning. not just for these characters and the story, but also for the indescribably talented weez phillips and her not-so-secret superpower of making me people cry. i really think that ability and the creations that come from it will only grow, and how amazing to be at the start of it all watching it happen. i also can’t believe i’d lasted this long without realizing the periwinkle pun. dang.

i’d recommend this book for people who enjoy filling in the blank details of a book with whatever their imagination gives them,

readers who enjoy growing up stories and adventure,

and kids who feel alone, and scared, and just need a little shot of hope to go bravely.

it’s a feel think hope kinda thing, and this book presents that wonderfully.

click here to preorder The Lightest Heaviest Things on Kindlehere to add it on Goodreadsand here to see the Redbubble merchandise collection. (and leave reviews and posts wherever you do that so weez has to write another one : D )

(also. that merch. hhh.)

did i do it? was it okay?

~been running for so long, jo~

^^ that song reminds me of this so go listen to it while you read it

what are they doing?

their best.

sometimes their best is getting out of bed and into the shower and then skipping the shower to sit on the roof and get drenched by the rain.

sometimes it’s plopping on the ancient stolen laptop slowly breaking down as they realize the world has cursed them from the get go and the one person there since the beginning tries to help but her words just don’t sink in, they’re like swords being handed over when a shield is what they wish they had.

and so, sometimes the best is simply to be.

and sometimes that’s okay.

because nobody asks for this. nobody asks to be passed over on a happy story, nobody asks for the war or the bullets or the yelling, nobody wants that, and somehow everyone gets it.

and sure, it won’t be like that forever, but that doesn’t change the fact it is like that now.

and it sucks.

it’s like being the hero of a dying game called life. where nobody makes it out alive.

so then the hero takes off their mask, and they’re just a little kid in the dark with too much free time on their hands.

and they have a good cry and consider eating pineapple pizza. but to not completely descend into madness they make ramen and feel numb.

and the numbness









and it’s beep. beep. beep. you are still alive. you are still breathing. welcome, brave soul.

and that’s. that’s the best. not the best overall or ever. but not nothing either.

because then you just. get back up. and you play a song. and you watch a movie. and you talk to people. and you don’t feel alone. even though you are. and you think about a future where you can actively ignore people as a choice and therapy isn’t a pain to schedule. it may never happen but it’s a nice illusion to cling on to for a while.

but then it’s not an illusion. you just aren’t there yet.

and that’s okay.

because you will be. somehow. sometime. maybe you’ll have a pizza. maybe you’ll wear a mask and tell yourself “i can do this” and maybe it will hurt and maybe you’ll be strong and maybe you’ll be a hero, even if for a moment.



maybe it gets better than that


it gets better than this.

~mom always asked where did i go wrong, jo~


you know those dear future husband (or wife) letters?

this is not one of those. i’d rather die, thank you very much.

what this is is… a rambling session into the void. i’m sorry you have to deal with it. if you’re reading this, you’ve probably made the unfortunate mistake of interacting with me. for that i give my sincere apologies. it’s a lot to deal with. i’d avoid it if i could, but i can’t. and so here we are.




this is for anyone (except my caseworker. also my exes. you had your shot.) i could literally not care less who. perhaps you’re a relative, perhaps you’re a friend, perhaps you’re a partner, perhaps you’re nobody. perhaps the “you” will change from person to person with time. perhaps it’s a group of people, a good duo, a kind mentor, a friend, someone i accidentally spilled coffee on at work, and perhaps you’re the wall. i’m not picky. i’m not much of anyone either, if that makes things easier. anyway.

but i do think an introduction is in order. we can withhold the tragic backstory for another long night with no self control and a lot of angst. maybe you have a similar one, maybe you got lucky. wouldn’t be luck, but you know what i mean. uh. i’m rambling. dangit, i do that sometimes. okay.


wow this is going great

i’m jo, uh, i’m *gestures* all of this. what’s this? who knows. also i have this lovely executive dysfunction, anxiety, mild interest in nihilism, and i try to mask the pain of being alive with humor and snarky quips. smart, i know.

i’m lonely.

what a pathetic thing to say, but there, i said it, i’m lonely.

are you lonely too?
like, even a little bit?

it sucks, i’ll tell you that much. you know the saying “it takes a village to raise a child”? guess what happens when that village doesn’t know that child exists?

*jazz hands* you get meeeeeee!



you know what, i like improv comedy. i guess that might be surprising given everything i just said, but i like the idea of spinning nothing into laughter. kinda morbid if you think about it. which is why i don’t. like lenny bruce was this amazing person with words but man must’ve had a tired time of it with is mind, you know what i mean?

why are you even still listening

i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to be this dark. it just happens.


i’m obsessed with theater and stories and creating, if you wanted to torture me, drop me in my hometown without an explanation, i will happily die for pizza, my favorite color is black, my best friends are all onscreen, as you can imagine that has doomed me to eternal introvertedness, i suffer from some mild form of social anxiety, i despise heteronormativity, equally, i think most romance is horrible, however, that doesn’t erase the fact that i am the biggest investor in romanticism i know despite being all of five feet. i think there’s beauty everywhere, i think there is good in people, i think there is enough love to be shared. i think the world is broken, i think that life is unfair, i think people are cruel, i am terrified of opening up, and there’s too much ugliness to support the “fundamentally good” theory. we’re not good. we’re not all bad. we’re human, and that’s the worst thing to be.

…and also i will happily eat any snack offered and the ones not offered for good measure.

this is why i have no friends. chalk another mark for the mental ward. i’ve been there, they have very kind people. also they have leftover pizza. that’s two big pluses right there.

tell me about yourself.

what drives you? what horrifies you? what keeps you up at night? who’s the first person you saw and said “i want to be like that” even though they weren’t exactly a person to be like? what did you read? where’d you spend your days as a kid? what do you think about love? where do you place your faith? what kind of pizza do you order? what’s your mcdonalds combo? do you like thrift store shopping? how do you see the world?

did you burn your village to feel its warmth, or did you simply walk away too?

forgive me for being forward, i’m just fascinated by the idea of voluntarily giving information to someone, and that someone just… accepting it. wanting to accept it. please take your time, who you are and what you choose to share is beautiful. i mean that.

besides, we have all the time in the world. or not. whichever happens first.

i just… if we do meet, if this elusive idea of a person that chooses to interact with me for no other reason than just doing it is true, i don’t want to spend it talking about the weather, unless you want to stare at the stars and dance in rain and watch thunderstorms and all that goofy stupid stuff they tell you you shouldn’t do. what better thing to do?

if this is true, you should know i suck at small talk. that isn’t to say i despise conversation, it’s to explain that i spark it. i’ve burnt a lot of people that way. i’m sorry. i’m warning you now so you can get out while you still can.

if this is true, i hope you’re okay with randomness. i promise there is method in my madness, i promise i mean well, i promise that i don’t take the implications of a friendship of any sort light, i promise i’ll care, i promise i will screw up so many times, i’ll be mean, i’ll be abstract, and weird, but if you can deal with that, awesome.

if this is true, please be okay with walmart pizza and a movie borrowed from the library. i’m broke and if you stopped long enough to talk to me, you’re probably still paying off college debt. or not even able to pay for college. me neither pal. i love the idea of luxury, but i’m not willing to pay for it. it just doesn’t feel real then, right? because once you pay for it you expect to be happy? and when you get disappointed that’s a you problem. i don’t want to hurt anyone like that. or myself. so i hope you’re okay with sitting on the curb eating drugstore popsicles or breaking into the library to return overdue books before the fee. trust me, i’d flail given richness. i don’t need that. i’m okay with walmart pizza and the free version of spotify.

if this is true, feel free to horrify me with tragic tales from your past. i don’t mind. i can’t promise i’ll heal anything, but i’ll be there to listen. this isn’t sacrificial, it’s selfish, but it’s something. we can swap. or not. whatever goes first. just know that i’ll listen. i’ll talk.

if this is true, prepare to have your snacks stolen. i highly do not recommend leaving them out, especially with a high metabolism some-kind-of-possibly-hypoglycemic child. i’ll pay them back, but that grub is lon gone.

if you have triggers, those suck. let me know. don’t try to keep me safe from them, please say what you’re comfortable and not comfortable with. be honest. i’ll do my best to do the same in return. i’m already gonna hurt you on accident, the least i can do is avoid most of it. locked doors, church halls, curled fists, and silence are my demons, what’re yours?

i have this thing where i can hear music by looking at people. i may or may not give you a playlist based on all the vibes you’ve emanated over the time. i may not be sorry. i just hope you like it. i hope you like music, it’s the one language i’m fluent in.

if i trust you enough, i’ll probably hug you. if i trust you too much, i’ll usually slip up and sing a song i wrote in the night. if you forget me, at least keep the songs.

if you need to gain anything from this chaos… then take the fact that i am not a ball of sunshine and laughter. and i’m not broken shares of angst and sadness. and i’m not wit and genius, i’m not comedy and humor, i’m not angry, i’m not war, i’m not passive, i’m not shy and anxious, i’m all of those things at the same time and whichever one manifests at the time is the one that covers everything else. so if you see me happy and then sad, don’t tell me “what happened to you” because that is me, dude. i can assure you i understand the complexity of the individual soul to do the same for you. i can say that for certain, whoever you are, you’re intricate and wild and you have a light nobody else can match. don’t ask me how i know.

what am i saying?

i care. if there is maybe any reason to even talk to me, it’s probably that. if you show any inkling of seeing beyond the surface, i’ll jump in feet first and insist on being there. if you need an ear, i’ll come close to cutting mine off so you can have them all the time. it’s probably one of my biggest weaknesses. given the choice between myself and someone i love, even if the stakes are personal desire and casual interest, i’ll always pick the someone. it’s stupid. it’s why i can’t trust people. but it’s there. usually though, that’s only extended to the closest of friends, and since i don’t have a lot of those to begin with, it hasn’t been too much of a liability. yet. the worst thing you could do is insist that i shouldn’t have to deal with you.

besides murdering, obviously don’t do that.

and that’s why this is not a dear husband (or wife) letter, because i wish i could say this to everyone that’s had the misfortune of coming across me, but i know that not everyone wants it. that’s why they leave.

so this is to anyone. just friends. just siblings. just classmates. just a teacher. just any stupid connection you could think of. it’s not *just* a person. it’s not *just* a soul. i’ve poured mine out already, i’ll try to be careful with yours.

i’ve considered the necessity of self love and how that plays out into my bold demands, and it checks out. i’m… i’m okay with myself. i like me. that’s not why i’m saying this. but i think the need to actively love and care for other people beyond myself is. maybe i’ll get around to fixing myself too. i just hope, at the very least, you’re only mildly worried.

if we part ways and i don’t see you again, if something happens, then i hope you know i wish you well. and i wish i could’ve stuck around longer. and maybe there will be other people, but it… wasn’t nothing.

would you look at that, you don’t even exist and yet the thought of saying all this to you and doing all this and being has already made me a little less lonely. thanks, i guess. you touched my life and you’re not real. either i’m real pathetic or real insightful or both.

but whoever you are, anyone out there, i’d love to talk.

~and what a privilege it is to love, jo~


assorted bottles on display in store


walmart shopping after work, after the end of the day and everyone’s ready to grab their frozen pizzas and go home.

“uhhh.” you stare at your camera, and then you stare and the rows of mini backpacks that hang before you. your sister slings an arm around your neck and pats a sleek looking black half pint.

“see anything you like?” panic. how are you supposed to choose anything? the idea of getting something absolutely brand new is foreign, almost dirty. everything you’ve ever possessed with the exception of your precious camera has either been stolen from dumpsters or carefully picked from thrift store racks. there’s something thrilling about getting something for your very own, something terrifying.

“the marvel ones look cool,” you mumble, eyes a captain marvel one in the kids section. you’re still a kid, after all.
“unless you wanna explain a flaming superhero on campus, i’d settle for something more discreet.” they rest their arm on your head simply because you’re short and you glower. “or not. whatever catches your eye.”

you pause. “do you mean that?”

the walmart is left with one bobbing brown leather backpack and a jojo siwa balloon punched in the face.


two persons playing hockey on ice field


“i can’t keep TRACK of all of you,” the skate guard laughs as a bunch of little kids push them around the ice, tiny handmedown skates running against the cold to push this giant human around, for, you know, practice.

it is the second to last week of the skating season, and you wait for your friend to finish wrapping her scarf around her head as you have a small conversation about skating.

“i like it, i just wish i had lessons,” she sighs, staring over at some other girl on the ice whose teacher cheers her on as she does a cool one-legged spinny trick and doesn’t fall over. on the other side, the little kids have all fallen into a heap and their adult takes turns picking one up and dragging across the ice, giggling as they feel the sensation of floating on cold air.

“me too,” you agree. you take off your coat and step onto the ice, carefully pushing yourself off. you skate for a while, it feels like forever.

“hey, hey kid!” the skateguard comes up to you and the other children on the ice. “this is how you make a stop the hockey style, okay?”

without question everyone stands still and watches as they dart across the ice, sharply leaning on one side and letting a spray of ice fly across the rim. someone applauds. they come back proud.

“now you try it and see how it goes.”
“in figure skates?” you protest.

they throw their hands up in the air. “they’re all skates, aren’t they?”


poor lighted hallway


“…therapy?” the nurse asks kindly, handing you flip flops to walk in instead of the strange cloth sock contraptions they give upon arrival. you take them shyly, you’re not used to being offered anything, you feel guilty, you need to be tough, you have nearly died.

“is it expensive?”

the nurse laughs. “maybe, but your mind’s worth it.” they sit down and explain a way of healing you’d only ever heard as a joke, as a taboo element of life nobody wants to hear about, as something you never thought you needed. it sounds… it sounds good.

“we can set you and your family up for a session after you’re discharged,” the nurse finishes. “or… just you,” they add, watching your face crumple from passive to pained. “do… you want to talk about it?”

“uh, can i take you up on your offer another time?” you might be sidestreet, but you have manners.

when another time comes, you talk, and for the first time, you are listened to.


brown wooden framed white padded chair in between green indoor leaf plants inside bedroom


aftermath. an invitation. “let’s hang out!”

you’re suspicious. you should be, the people who you trusted stabbed you in the back and forced you to thank them for it.

still, a way out is a way out is a way out. you’ve stopped questioning the morality of a situation and just accepted it regardless of whether it’s right or wrong. what’s that to you anyway?

her apartment’s small, you’ve never been here before. the fun, artsy cousin from christmas and thanksgiving dinners holds her baby with one hand and with the other, pulls you in for a hug. you stiffen, you relax, it’s calm for a while, and then she asks you the question.

“how are you?”

it is then, slowly, surely, you feel like maybe you can heal.


photo of pendant lamp turned on


kitchen island at 10 pm, sitting cross-legged as your brother fishes for spoons in the utensil drawer.

“how’s it going?”

you answer by nearly falling off the island in exhaustion, but thankfully your hands grip the side in time and you give a sheepish grin. “oops.”

the truth is that daily mundane life is so freakishly different from living in a state of survival, and you’re not used to waking up to do, to be, to thrive. to running, to being free to run, to interacting with other humans, to do normal daily mundane human stuff. you are used to playing mind games you never win and cussing the person in the mirror, to locked doors and dark windows. you love it and you hate it and you don’t know what to do with it.

“ahh, sounds like you need some sugary motivation for your troubles.” the brother places a bowl in front of your regrettably small form, tucks a spoon into your tired hands, and lifts a giant carton of ice cream from the freezer.

“you’re tired too, aren’t you?” you say, propping the ice cream scoop against the white cardboard to dig into the heavenly coldness.

the brother simply winks and asks for two scoops of chocolate.

all lives, blue skin

people gathering on street during daytime

i see you.

i see you, all of you, splattering bright blue paint against the blazing yellow words that cover the same streets that have been washed of its blood red stains.

i see you, white and black and rainbow, walk the streets triumphantly insisting that all lives matter, all lives matter, all lives matter, NO, ALL LIVES MATTER. ALL OF THEM.

you yell this in the face of the very lives you have literally just declared matter. you shake your fist at children who are declaring themselves to be proud of their skin, who are raising their fists and demanding that justice be served. you rip banners, you scream, you shout, you applaud the “protectors, the good guys”, you cry for general importance and to make america normal.

can you not see yourself?

can you not see the anger and fear and hate that passes through the masks you don’t wear, the very visible disease that accompanies the invisible virus we have already lost lives to. apparently your insistence to be heard trumps the need to not be sick.

one of the more passionate of you did. not. stop. yelling.


you wave your phone, puff your chest with the words “gays for trump” printed across it, shape your face to personify total derision of the person behind the screen that is recording you, begging you to state your thoughts in peace.

sir, i ask you of all people, is it possible that despite who you are partnered with, that you do not understand what it is to love?

the whole lot of you walk away with blue hands, saluting the blue shirts, just now attributing yourself to colors. you walk in shooting view of the photographers who come to these displays of human confusion to capture it for history, and in this moment that will last for the ages,

you smirk.

when you are noticed, you smirk because you know that you will be seen.

when we’re noticed, we just make sure we are the best representation of who we are and where we come from in case that’s the last time anyone ever sees us.

can you not see?

you worship the ones who will not hesitate to pound people to the ground, to spray tear gas into kids who just happen to be there, who, if suddenly told by the powers that be that their next victims were the all lives matter people, would not hesitate to treat you with the same cruelty that you gleefully advocate for against the people who are trying to put it all to an end.

you choose to get your hands smeared in blue paint. you are not born in an unalterable dark pigment from head to toe, you do not walk out of the door knowing that you will forever be seen not for your mind or your heart, but how much or how little melanin is in your body. you can wash the paint off, you can take the uniform that is stained with the sweat and blood of another soul away to be cleaned. skin is not so easily maintained.

you put on the blue, you put on the power, you choose that, and in doing so, you let your humanness hide under your colors. we are laid raw and bare and brokenly human in ours.

i feel sorry for you.

i am sorry that i have to use words like “us” and “them, “you” and “we”, because it is undeniably certain that you do not want to seek justice, love mercy, or walk humbly with God, with your fellow humans, or even with yourself. and i pity that very much.

let me correct your sign for you.

you are currently saying that all lives matter. what you want to say is “I MATTER! I MATTER! I MATTER!”

that’s the root of it, isn’t it my dude? you are terrified of the idea of anyone else mattering except yourself.

how sad.
how pathetic.
of course you do.

but not solely you.

here is what all lives matter looks like:

arresting the cops that killed breonna taylor. addressing the very obvious inequalities in every aspect of our society. acknowledging the same heart problems that are in you are in me too. dancing in the streets with no fear of being pulled over or being shot at. holding hands with friends and unmaking enemies. no fear. no shouting. peace. joy. a coffee shop that won’t be vandalized or run out of business where people can learn to connect and thrive. smiles on people’s faces. growing bipoc businesses. to walk into a church and not be treated based on the corners of eyes or the color of skin. to know the same love and call to healing from Above is meant for us all.

can you see the possibilities? can’t you see it?

of course not. you can’t even see me. you don’t want to. you want yourself. what you know.

you chant for blue and blindly watch as black dissolves to red.

did you forget that last color runs through your veins too?

~everyone’s pushing, everyone’s fighting, jo~

hallway light

it is four am.

yoooo sup, welcome to another night of this amazing thing called insomnia.

all things considered the vibes are almost immaculate. just forget the microwave that was supposed to be cleaned

and this paper due in three days

and a myriad of problems that have all been shoved to the side and run away from for as long as possible

and the lack of air conditioning

and it’s a pretty dang great scene


fans running at full speed tempting the fates to shut the power down


a microwave brownie mug cake whipped up and resting on the desk with steam coming from the cracks in the aesthetically pleasing top


the sleep podcast that streams through my ears and promises to be my buddy while i drift off

which i appreciate

like the world promises to be at peace at this time

and of course the world always lies, but you know what i mean?

“therapy,” someone cries. “jo you need therapy” to which i reply

in THIS economy?

money is such a sad thought that my foggy brain can’t think about it without deciding to cut off that necessary evil known as serotonin, and look at that, now we’re viben’t

but see like

the thing about insomnia is it’s so invitingly stupid

perhaps there’s a better way to phrase this

but the One time that i voluntarily attempt to be a body at rest is the One time where everything screams Life! Liberty! The Pursuit Of Being Contrary! Song Lyrics! Wake Up!

it’s painful, it’s beautiful, it’s four twenty in the am

how ironic, to watch time slip past as rest taunts you from afar

awwwww can’t sleep can’t sleep look who can’t sleep look who sits side by side with their demons look who makes mug cakes for the monsters under the bed

shut up

it’s true it’s true true true true

listen buddy i don’t need advice from my doubts right now end of conversation

and then my mind laughs because in shutting it down i have quoted a lyric from nf and now i’ll have something new to ponder over for an hour


i don’t know

i want to feel alive, i want to feel something new, something different

to run away

to leave it all again


you could say what my mind is crying for, thinking about, searching so desperately, never finding is not, in fact, pulling a santa fe, but actually being a decently functional human and going the fudge to sleep

i want fudge

and your point is proven already

at this time in life sometimes i’m glad i’m alone, because imagine having to deal with a waking monster child that wanders the house asking what the meaning of life is and hadn’t we put the world on timeout

i mean, i have to deal with myself and that is a terrifying statement

the podcast gently occupying my ears makes no sense and i relate to that on a personal level

and here i feel the need to spin this into some inspirational little piece of words, but the plain and simple truth is i do not want to

i wish for peace upon the world, but i can’t bring it

i hope everyone can find rest but i don’t know where it is

and i think sleep is lovely and if you find some tell me how

i’ll be waiting in my stuffy room and the hallway light is on

many thoughts head full

isn’t that a funny thing

when the dreamer is wide awake



go to sleep

you’re no use to anyone dead

like you’re useful alive?


well that’s something we find out tomorrow, isn’t it

now, goodnight.

but is it—