mindful minimalist in training

I am a poet by nature and a depressed asshole by choice. Here's to the writers of the world whom inevitably fall in love with themselves.

[evelynsima]

I climb up this wall so I can jump from it Rock by unrelenting rock, I go up so I can fall down No need for hands that will catch me No need for the securing ropes

Most days I hate myself because you refuse to Most days I kill a version of myself So you won't ever have to meet them All those spiteful, petty beings

They tether, rise up They leap and sink again

Most days you are blind and I allow it The only one who needs to see the bottom is me.

>Evelyn Sima, rock climbing

[chippedfiction]

A cup of tea (hot & fruity): Check ✔️ A good book (exciting & full of magical adventures): Check ✔️ A bunch of candles (smelling nicely): Check ✔️ A comfortable reading space (pillows and blankets): Check ✔️

[gastronomyfiles]

[petalier]

@WeHeartIt /entry/302409612

[priveting]

the bargain book shop by no penny for them on Flickr.

[evelynsima]

it is saturday, january 19th, and i have time to be angry

it is an isolating, debilitating thing to possess the kind of knowledge that reveals the worst in all of us. it is the tightrope between passive acceptance and enraged action. it is the cowardice behind a screen door.

you are a screaming cacophony surrounded by turned backs and there is nothing you can do or say to make them acknowledge that this, this sound, is the beat before the massacre.

this, that moment, will surely be forgotten and once again, returned to the ones left bleeding in its wake.

[stckwll]

tremors // SOHN

[evelynsima]

Seventh-grade English. Mrs Hart scribbles oxymoron onto the board with a blue marker and my mind offers: good father.

Oxymoron. when he says I love you as he raises his hand, the meticulous nature of haphazard habits - like the way the needle stuck or the dice rolled.

oxymoron is the way he kept us together by tearing each of us apart. oxymoron, Mrs Hart asks for an example, and I say: pretty ugly.

– Evelyn Sima, oxymoron

[vhord]

[evelynsima]

you are a tax on those around you and none of them want to pay it there is no space for you here not even between rests not even between breaths there is no chord in your song that will make them want to listen. and really, it is so pathetic you being chased away. where can you run to when home has never asked you to stay. who has ever asked to stay. baggage outweighing property, butchered landing without lands. you are too much for anyone to hold. you run through palms and in between fingers. you spill from sinks and sink too quickly. this moment is not yours. even now, these rented words they will be returned to someone else.

Evelyn Sima, “Tax”

[evelynsima]

at least your art is pure, he says, at least it contains your soul.  fuck purity. fuck soul – i've never  asked to make horcruxes, never asked for traumatic muse. i will tear away every artistic thread in me for the ache to cease, the pain and wrathful nights to leave, for uninterrupted sleep –  i will abandon the arts completely trade my voice for legs burn my words to ash break my strings and beg if that would offer me freedom. fuck the deceitful notion that art requires hurt. i have hurt enough.

Evelyn Sima, killing horcruxes

[taces]

[fyp-psychology]

I dream of a love that is more than two people craving to possess one another.

Irvin D. Yalom, (American existentialist psychologist), When Nietzsche Wept (via fyp-psychology)

[luciensfox]

[cuprikorn]

[evelynsima]

for a brief moment, i felt you love me it was short-lived like ice on the august pavement a mayfly's dream. it was here and then gone the space between silence and sound. for a hasty, instantaneous second i thought you loved me but the thought disappeared best escape artist i've ever seen tricks of the cruel trade.  before the illusion was over, i really felt something more than nothing. it was a fraud-fueled jet a tired quarter rest when you loved me, it was the space between almost and done here and gone.

Evelyn Sima, lightning

[bled]