#project journals

[the-bjd-community-confess]

There’s nothing I love more in this hobby than following a project journal for mods. Gimme those long winded, in depth explanations !

~Anonymous

[ashrebirth]

32. Erykah’s lyrics echoing across the cool parlour "I don’t wanna time travel nomore, I wanna be here,’’ like, truly. I’m ready to just receive my life, and be nothing. To quit striving for everything, filling gaps, which I realized only magnifies my fears of inadequacy. All the things I could be, well, how about in my skin. With my hair not aspiring to weave and style, my tummy not tightening to mimick abs. Here, with my eyes under lenses, not strained after the horizon. But reading fiction. Self-help books aside, not building anything. Just reading, about love and wistfulness and made up names but that are every single bit as real. Made up names that somehow feel exactly, how I do, which existing people still fail to understand...

excerpts from the weekend, fe.

[burntgraphyt]

ii. But what I’m finally learning, and not a moment too soon or too late, the importance of creating for just the sake of creating. I’ve been shrunken, pressured to monetize my gifts before even fully growing into them. But lately I’ve been creating as a healing process, as a recess from the stresses of life. As a freedom. Last thing I need is yet another job, or obligation, yet another expectation to fulfil. I had lunch with a friend today, and she introduced me a “the photographer” to the third party. That shit used to make me shake and defer. But I smiled like, yes I am, but attach yourself to that at your own risk girl. If the photos come out bad I don’t care. To clear they would never. Because I’m doing it right this time. Right by me. It’s also been weird to be trusted on a gift I don’t even fully trust yet, fuel for the fears. But there’s a simple way around that. Pray that my photography gets better. Work so it does.

[burntgraphyt]

i. A life in wait, due to a fear of becoming. Imbibing in the numbness, for sensation might be too overwhelming, life might be too overbearing. Fullness might make me hurt, a buffet of experiences might make it had to sleep at night. Or is being subdued what’s stifling? Is it the stagnation that’s suffocating, the stillness hardly calming? Tumultuous, striving against the current when all the universe needs for me is to be great? Wrapping my face in an industrious frown and burying myself in the grindstone, above the grave, reading- All she did was wait and so it never came. Who will I haunt and what shall be my purpose? Because if it’s not my words, my images, challenging, and plaguing, when my physical being is no longer what will my vessel be? How will I perpetuate this change within me- timeless as the ocean and the old blue forever and more? When this coco hue turns to mould what beauty shall reign and behold and carry those that I leave behind to their own destinies, a loveliness like a sumptuous lunch for the road. And because these days are never known what can I say I’m betting on? I look in the mirror and say be patient, yet I cry to the skies why is it now, seemingly too soon, before I even had a plan before I even got myself together. I suppose getting yourself together is but a fallacy, myopia, there’s no better being than as you are my darling…