Jean Elle Writing @jean-elle-writing - Tumblr Blog

I don’t feel stronger for having done it alone. They laud people like us, the self taught, the independent. At the summit of my life I look down at the people with their arms crooked together stumbling happily along, and I am dumbfounded, I am envious, I am wounded. Why do imperfections not bore holes into your skin? What chitin sprouts from your flesh and why did mine settle around my heart?

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I am like lead, the more I write the less of me there is.

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I realize now my heart is a beast I cannot trust. It smells blood in my mind. It hungers for things I cannot say aloud, and it frightens me.

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I thought if I googled mistakes people made in their twenties I could avoid making my own. Add thinking that’s possible to the list of mistakes to avoid.

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Damselflies are often mistaken for dragonflies but their wings rest vertically rather than horizontally like their dragon counterparts. There is a rather small baby blue iteration of the damselfly by the name powdered dancer, and the river I swim in is their stage. They’re terribly friendly with the audience, landing on noses and fingertips between flights of the feet. Ticklish are you, they’ll get a laugh out of you yet.

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Sleepy days are like mother’s arms

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Pause everything, I’m not self actualized yet. Give me a minute before the world goes on turning.

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To be alone you must stay still, very still, for a single step to the right or left bounds you into life. Connection is a tangle of vines you must maneuver about very carefully not to fall into. Let yourself be careless for once, stumble into what waits for you.

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I don’t think she’ll ever know this, but walking out of my first art history class in college a fellow student took the stairs in front of me and she had the most beautiful hair and style and I was awestruck. I remember her sleeping beauty blonde hair in soft waves, accordion pleat black pants, and black leather fringe jacket. My eyebrows went up like a dog seeing its new favorite toy, I was stunned by her fashion. As soon as I got home I googled clothes like that wanting to wear something similar. I wonder how many of these silent appreciations and awes happen between us as humans, how many of them we miss.

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Woman as art is a tale as old as time. Acceptable for a man to photograph a young woman’s face, but self absorbed and vain for a young woman to photograph herself. Should a man behold woman, none shall stand in his way. Should a woman behold herself, the world collapses in on itself. The object cannot be the viewer, this cuts men out of the equation.

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I feel blips of hope, they ignite in me. All this despair has only been tinder to help it burn at the opportune moment.

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Spend enough time alone and friends can turn to enemies. Whether your conspiring thoughts addle or comfort you, you don’t know. But they’re there, and your friends are not. Isolate yourself long enough, and anything good can rot. Leave your life out in the sun like old fruit and count the flies, the hours it takes to turn into nothing.

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A writing prompt idea: Write about something you see in other people that brings you happiness.

I’ll go first. I saw a friend’s instagram post from years ago scrolling on my phone. I was looking for a reference to draw her dog for her and I stumbled on a Christmas at her house. You could see the Disney princess stockings in the background. She has all sisters, I always wondered what that would be like. Doubling up on girl toys for one, though my brother’s list supplied gentlemen (ninja turtles) for my barbies to date so it worked out for me, having an older brother. Her Christmas tree peaks out over the gift she’s holding, a Legend of Zelda book. I think about all the families and all the Christmases that happened in unison with mine every year that I didn’t get to witness. The smiling faces of all my friends as kids, unwrapping gifts with their hands so small. Waking their parents at the crack of dawn, running down the stairs to the living room and opening a different, just as warm reality to my own.

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At the door of death, what is there to do but dream?

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I accept them as they are, but there is no satisfaction in this. There is no sighing breath as the book is closed and our story is complete. I must continue this relationship with them staring only at their cover, there is no more to read. It is a grim allowance, letting us stay in each other lives while we skate on each others’ surfaces, never opening, never yielding the vulnerability it would take to truly know each other.

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Threads below breaching my pink skin, holding all together, slinking out the pinholes

Let me heart strings be pulled so hard I feel again

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A “prayer changes things” sign burning in the wildfires, I can’t think of a better visual representation of how foolish that sentiment is. The fires of hell will not touch me, but the fires of mankind will. The religious apathetics believe in heaven, what use is earth? Why try so hard to protect it, if it is in ruins god made it so, it’s all a part of his plan, if we all burn, drown, and die in the climate crisis the soul is eternal anyways. This body was a temporary cage. You build a useless man this way, on the foundation that this life is only a test that if you pass you are granted into the after life. This life is all we get. Humans have created thousands of gods, none of which have walked this earth, tended our gardens, birthed our children, or cared for our communities. It is up to us. It has only ever been us.

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