In a melancholic pre-menstrual mood and craving closeness to stave off thoughts about someone who doesn't belong to me. In the position where I could fall in love if I let myself but that isn't allowed and I've got one one those already. It's so hard to be specific when they know you on all your corners of the internet but they'll only let you operate in the universe in one way so that's the end of that.
Falling is love is terrifying and I don't recommend it.
I would like to spend a great deal of time learning to make collages and analysing David Lynch films.
Everything is feeling too much for me. I hate the way the hormones make me feel, pulling a blanket of pressure down to press upon my chest and making slipping into death seem like an easy solution. I know it's only a cyclical reaction to the ministrations of my womb but I still fear the day when I am without tethers to the world and there is nothing holding me back. But will I still want to slip down with nothing to latch onto? I barely notice the melancholy when I am otherwise distracted and happy and there is no niggling trouble to be supernova-ed in the back of my mind.
I should be sleeping but I still haven't put together a handout for my presentation on Blue Velvet at 11am. Norman Rockwell meets Hieronymous Bosch, but I can't help but feel like Andy Warhol's electric chairs are a more fitting image of pre-fab completeness.
The beauty in the world is today covered by the rotting underneath. It's deep pink lines across the wrists of a girl who is beautiful from the inside out and it's finding stalkers in romance. It's all still beautiful but it eats away at me tonight like sunlight glinting off maggot-flesh.
I'll be back together again in the morning but tonight there is a layer of damp lace between my skin and the underneath and in the darkness it grows mould.