January 14, 2026. Hey, you. Hey, me.
You used to call yourself a writer. Or entertained the spew from your brain to the page, maybe even felt a little genius in each college class. That was before your heart swallowed you up and you pissed it all away because you were searching for something you couldnāt name. It took a few months and now your head is screwed back on your shoulders, and now you miss the taste of freedom, so instead you fill your mouth up with cigarettes and you only packed pajamas when you came from home because you wanted to fill your bags with the comfort you felt being there.
Beautiful, you sometimes feel it. In body and mind and soul. Usually just one or a few. Sometimes all of them.
Eat the hearts of all your loved ones, and perhaps you can keep a piece of them forever. Sweet fruit makes your stomach hurt, and so do the bubbles in that soda you love so much. Iāll keep drinking it for the rest of my days. Keep smoking. Keep indulging. Licking the honey from the spoon, even when I know that itās only vomit. Beauty, beauty, beauty. Beauty and pain and stupidity and the constant reach for something new. Something old. Something that will satisfy this hungry little hole in our hearts and our hands and our minds.
I love it, I hate it. I grow bored of it. I dance through it all, music buzzing in my ears and vibrating my bones. I think sometimes thatās the truest version of me, stuck in the middle of all of those lights surrounded by people I will never know, all on the same wavelengths. Itās like New York City. The soundā the buzz- the passion for dreams. A sort of unity that entwines itself with idiosyncrasy.Ā
Life is all of the mistakes I will gladly make again and again and again.













