writing shenanigans

hello 😃

[mmmwhalecarcass]

I want to take a dip in my soul and pour it out into the ocean, like ashes. Maybe we both will be ashes in the ocean one day and we'll meet again. Maybe then I can finally get to know you.

[mmmwhalecarcass]

I relapsed today. It is my mother's birthday and she has turned forty-six. It's been forty-six years and I've been around for fourteen of them. It's been forty-six five minutes since a blade touched my skin and fourteen of them I spent rinsing away the blood. I gifted her a set of peppermint hair oil. It smells like her fifties, which are coming soon. I know she really is still in her thirties. Perhaps I am, too. It still makes my father laugh when he says she is getting old. I see a bubble of tension rising in her throat and hear it pop when she hears his chuckles. Really, I know she hears his thirty-year old laugh. I know he hears his fifteen-year old laugh. He turned fifty-one, around eleven weeks ago. It was once fifteen half-minutes and thirty five-minutes since the last time a blade touched my skin. The skin shrivels and huffs quickly into angry red rows on my wrist. They sink back into fat like full sponges and leave behind brownish corpses. They decompose, singing, and their mess stays as faint beige sticks on my arm. It will soon be millions of five minutes since my mother's forty-sixth birthday. By then, my father has forgotten the sound of his fifteen-year old laugh. My sister recycles a bottle of hair oil as she cleans out the house. She jokes that it must be half a century old. Neither of us remember where it came from. One day, I'll be clean for forty-six years. Maybe on that day, I'll buy myself some peppermint hair oil.

[mmmwhalecarcass]

Artists, songwriters, composers, poets, writers, actors, directors, storytellers.

They're all the same, aren't they?

Is it not, so extraordinarily beautiful that, us, as humans, have the ability to convert emotions and experiences into pieces of media that are consumed by others?

And, have other people listen to the music, or read the writing, or watch the show, or listen to the story, or look at the artwork and love it as much as the creator does.

What a breathtaking thing. Human emotion, experiences, wisdom, expressed in these forms of media to share with others.

"Yes, I went through this, and it sucked." Or, "Yes, I did this, and I was happy while doing it." And then drawing or singing or writing or acting about it. Fuck you, I survived! And yes, I'm going to tell you about it!! Because I'm excited about it!!!

Human experience captured on a sheet of paper, a roll of film, a canvas, an empty wall, a fresh journal. That..really is the beauty of artwork.

The notes being played, the colors being used, the words being written, the lines being read. The emotion being portrayed. The art of putting ones feelings into these things is possibly the closest thing humans have to the divine.

AND WE LAUGH!! WE LAUGH AT THE HILARIOUS SHOW, WE CRY AT THE HEARTBREAKING POETRY, WE DANCE TO THE BEAT OF THE SONG. BECAUSE WE ARE HUMAN, AND WE RELATE TO EACHOTHER, AND DEEP DOWN, WHAT REALLY FUCKING CONNECTS US IS OUR EXPERIENCES!! ISNT IT SO BEAUTIFUL THAT ART CAN PORTRAY THAT?!?!?!? ON A LEVEL FOR US TO ENJOY AND CONSUME AND DISLIKE?!??!?!?!?

the most universal concept from the birth of life to the death of time: art.

[mmmwhalecarcass]

Somewhere, out there, love exists, and she goes hand in hand with tragedy.

What is life, if not loss, and then gain? What a vicious, beautiful cycle. What a experience, to live like a human, to laugh and cough and cry and share and eat and drink and feel. How breathtaking is that?

That almost all humans know the ache and joy of loss and gain. It's a terrible cycle, a repetitive, rot inducing one, but it's also simultaneously....incredible.

I know that hope exists, because despair does. What is hope, if not inspired by despair? What is despair, if not the foundation for hope?

[mmmwhalecarcass]

*stares but not in a gay way*

------------------------------------------------------

Maybe, if I was born a girl, this would have been something.

This small janitor’s closet could have been something; something more than a small room filled with awkward space. I look at him, my buddy, my best friend, and his uncomfortable expression. It causes an ache in my chest; an ache far beyond words; it rots my brain, eats me up as the seconds pass by. They feel like the few drops of rain before a storm; each one passing by, growing more prominent, slowly, painfully, hitting the sidewalk, a car hood, an umbrella, and fading away.

I can feel his confining breaths with each rise and fall of his chest. I should not be able to; I should not be able to imagine his lips on mine, I should not be able to feel the warmth of his figure that another girl will enjoy. Not mine to have. Never mine to have. I can feel the walls of this closet mocking me, screaming, shouting. I should have been a girl. I wish I was a girl. I wish. I can only wish. He averts his gaze, looking anywhere but me, which deepens the knife in my heart. I know he is uncomfortable, I should feel uncomfortable. Instead, I feel longing, longing for a love, beyond friendship, that only he could provide. A revolting, stupid, longing, that leads to nothing. Like a candle that burns out after a lifetime of passion. I am the candle that is thrown away. He is the lighter that finds his lamp; his soulmate; the girl who is able to feel the warmth of him; his breaths, and they’ll find another janitor’s closet, one that is filled with a loving space, not an awkward one.

Instead, I can only stare. I can only look at him, always in my sight, never in my reach. I admire him from mere inches away, a sadness in my eyes that he doesn’t understand. It has been a few minutes. The storm has now come; and he grinds his teeth in frustration, trying to ignore my eyes. I can only look. Stare. Gaze.

I sigh, my lungs and heart, raw and sore. I stare at him.

But not in a gay way.

[mmmwhalecarcass]

i wish that every girl who once held a blade to her skin finds a love stronger than the urge to cut it.

[mmmwhalecarcass]

I was born into a life that kills me over and over again.

Perhaps there is something that pulls us apart bit by bit as we grow older.

[mmmwhalecarcass]

i murdered my old self, yet i see her corpse in my dreams

[mmmwhalecarcass]

someone please put this man in a tim burton movie