Trust me.

Names have been changed for anonymity and protection. Nothing I say isn't true, and all I want is for this to be as loud as possible. This is ongoing because I don't want to be alone.

[thoughtsandpresents]

Reverse psychology.

[thoughtsandpresents]

Presents 1

I'm not the first person to blog about their feelings, their experiences, and their views on how their world works in order to figure their own shit out, but I'm probably one of the better at it. This won't be me updating day by day, but will be my life as it unfolds. The funny thing about life is that the present depends on the past: Thoughts were written before the current time - sometimes months ago - while Presents are written as I am, and usually with reflection on my past Thoughts. 

I implore these be read hungrily; I want to influence thoughts the same way everything does mine. Please absorb, and feel what I've felt. I crave impactful and spontaneous creation, even if only in minds. Thank you.

[thoughtsandpresents]

Thoughts 1

It's Thursday, April 21, or Friday April 22 if you consider the fact that it's 12:13 am.

A few nights ago I had a dream about JT, the first guy i was with after K, and the first of two guys I was with WHILE I was with him. In my dream, I knew that M had just told me something about how our relationship wasn't going to work out, for some reason or another... My canker sore is pounding, my whole mouth feels like it's on fire.

JT was there. I remember so vividly thinking I shouldn't be with him, I should be with M. I remember trying to call him but it wouldn't work. I remember looking up and seeing JT lying on the bed, he had a nice body, he was asleep, and all he had on were his underwear, which were half down his butt like he was in an advertisement or something. I woke up feeling hurt, lost, and frustrated with myself for dreaming that, and for doing what I did to him in real life.

I would like to email him to apologize. Lately, I've been feeling a lot of sadness, not just towards him, and it may just be exam season, but I have a lot of sadness inside me. I've realized it doesn't make me a sad or depressed person; I am sad because I have so much love. Maybe too much love. I have understanding, and regret, and empathy, and intuition. I have love for the people I've met, the people who are hurting, and the people who I've met that I might have hurt. 

I was hurting on my drive back from Sam's, and not just because I was frustrated he pushed me into taking his directions, and not just because my canker sore was ripping a hole in the right side of my face. I was just hurting for everything and everyone.

For everyone who is hurting, and I convinced myself of this just as I took the Main Street East exit off the highway, which has been narrowed down due to construction: just hurt. Don't try to stop the hurt. Understand why you have that hurt. Work with the hurt, because it's there for a reason. Don't try to feel numb, don't force yourself to stop feeling. Don't do things, actions, people, or drugs that stop the hurt.

Sometimes, it's better to feel the cold, than to go numb.

[thoughtsandpresents]

Easy.

[thoughtsandpresents]

Chamomile Tea.

She was washing dishes. The sky outside hollered ferocious winds and spat angry pellets of ice.

He was talking on the phone. The road outside was slicked over to a dangerous silver and the edges of the road were invisible in the storm.

Her hot soapy cloth rubbed at a stubborn spot on the dinner pan as the wheel jerked out from under his one hand. The phone dropped from his hand and bounced off the car floor, lodging itself between the brake pedal and the forgiving floor.

Somewhere near her, another phone rang, and she picked it up clumsily with her most dry hand, thumbing for the talk key. She picked up a large and delicate mug filled with hot soapy water from the sink as she said ''hello'' into the mouth piece.

Synapses exploded like car pistons in her brain as neurons collapsed in on themselves like windshields.

Her heart broke open like the china mug, spilling hot and wet on the floor, small pieces clinking and spinning.

It was her knees to hard floor and head to diluted hands as she collapsed below the sink, faster than his bumper to tree or airbag to chest. 

Her nose then bled like fountains, her hot and soapy blood spilling between her fingers, through his broken windshield, onto her floor, and onto his seatbelt.

Neither he nor she would ever wash dishes again.

The end.

[thoughtsandpresents]

Long.