don't write me letters

you know, those positivity posts about how you should ‘just write for yourself!’ are great and all but

writing is hard.

writing is really hard.

the physical act of putting fingers to keys and asking my brain to translate into language what i see in my head is hard.

coming up with ideas is easy, but tying them down into reality, making sure they make sense to those who don’t share your headspace, that’s really hard.

and sometimes i just think about the fact that

i wouldn’t lose out if i didn’t write

i’d still have all these awesome ideas in my head, still have all those neat little twists of phrase for as long as they pleased me, still have the emotion and the joy of having this little story, all my own in my own head, there to play and replay and alter and enjoy whenever i want it

i wouldn’t be put out if i didn’t write

what i’m trying to say is, i don’t write for myself

ever

it’s too much work, too much pain for too few advantages, and that’s just not me

i’m not that hardworking, i don’t love the labor for the love of labor itself, i don’t have that much effort to give for something so redundant

i write for other people, always

because what’s the point of wrangling down my ideas into states other people will understand if not for them?

so, you know, thank you

thank you for taking the time to read my ideas; thank you for taking the time to share in them, to whatever extent you do; thank you for being here and being willing and able to engage with me, and these little ideas i wrangled down into reality beyond my own headspace

you’ve made all that pain and all that trouble so, so worth it

thank you ♥

And it turns out we really do keep writing the same thing. I ask whether you’re sick and then you write about it, I want to die and then you do, I want stamps and then you want stamps, sometimes I want to cry on your shoulder like a little boy and then you want to cry on mine like a little girl. And sometimes and ten times and a thousand times and always I want to be with you and you are saying the same thing. Enough, enough.
—  Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

the solution is, i see a whole room of these mutant kids,
fused at the wrist, i simply tell them they should shoot at this,
simply suggest my chest and this confused music,
it’s obviously best for them to turn their guns to a fist.

- guns for hands // twenty one pilots

  • someone: hey when you're done your homework--
  • me: I'm never done my homework but continue

Throwback to when we had to buy these useless, hella old school pens for school when I was like 11.

We spent about two months, three hours a week, “drawing” old German letters and weird decorative and also some Russian ones in our arts class. Don’t ask me why.

The fact remains: By the end, they had successfully created nearly 100 children able to write with even just a chicken’s feather and able to understand old German writing.

Just… Don’t ask me why this was in any way relevant in 2010. Don’t. Because I have no answer.

Anyway, I was happy when I found that pen again today! By accident. Opened a cupboard and there it was. All by itself. My writing isn’t nearly as pretty as it used to be, though.

I’ve tried and tried so hard to stop loving you because you’ve proven to me you don’t want what I have to give, and yet I’m still sitting here thinking about you, about you hunched at a table fifty feet away across a big open room and I felt like I was suffocating. I was never what you wanted me to be and you were never what I wanted you to be and I don’t know if I was ever honest, a single day I knew you. I don’t know how you love somebody like that without being honest; I don’t know how I did it but I know it hurts. It hurts like hell and it scars. So that all loving hurts after that. And I still love you, and when I was finally honest you turned me away like I knew you would: with tired, rotten kindness.

I keep seeing you in other faces, where I don’t want to see you and where you scare me. I wish you’d leave me be but you keep scurrying back into my consciousness the way you might scurry past me in the choking sunlight in that big room, too big, as I put my head down, desperate to seem engaged in something else.

I felt so lost for so long and it was your fault and you had no idea. Part of me hates you for it and the rest of me hates you for everything else and for never being what I needed and most of all for never being what I knew you could be, if you just let go a little bit. Forgot a little bit. Won’t you just forget me?

I don’t need you anymore but I’m bursting with regret, things I wish I could tell you and not hurt you, and not be hurt. I don’t want to hurt you I just want you to Realize but those things are just the same sometimes. You could be really wonderful. I wish you weren’t hurting. I wish you hadn’t hurt me

i needed our love to die out slowly.

and i know that sounds crazy, because who wants to watch something they love shrivel up like leaves do in the fall? nobody does, nobody wants to see anything die.

but i needed to, i needed to watch the trees turn brown in the yard. i needed to pour salt on our love and i needed to watch it burn.

i needed to see it– i needed to see that we could die out. i needed to know we couldn’t last forever.

and i think that’s why i always kept coming back, like even though we cut our veins, the blood still flowed and i kept watching it pool up on my skin and stain my sheets and god i still kept loving you. i kept loving you under burnt bridges and broken ties.

and loving you was not good for me, it never was, but i couldn’t stop because i didn’t know how to let you go if i couldn’t figure out if we were really bulletproof or if we’d just die on impact.

so i watched us die.

i had to watch our love get shot in the chest a couple times and i had to sit down and give myself time to realize that soon it would be over– soon everything would be gone. i had to see you begin to get tired of me, i had to feel myself letting you go, i had to look at you everyday and just feel what i once had a little bit less every time.

and i’m sorry for dragging it on for so long– but i just had to know i could stop loving you before i could ever truly recognize that the person i once loved so much was gone.

— 

and now we’re just dead leaves in the yard

 mh 

 letters i’ll never send

2

i didn’t put this into elle fanning tag so don’t come to my blog with such replies/messages because  i don’t care about your opinion? shocking, i know.

and i’m not mentioning/tagging anyone because i don’t want any drama. period. please don’t reply to this and leave me alone, i don’t even know you.

I’m the kind of person that if you tell me something that someone else, including me, said was wrong and that you’re right. But you’re actually wrong, ESPECIALLY if you hurt someone in the process; that I’ll sit yo ass down so fucking fast, tape you to the goddamn chair, whip out my handy dandy fucking notebook and the whiteboard I conjured using Accio Whiteboard and will fucking document to you:
•How you were wrong.
•How you were sooooo fucking wrong.
•How I was right.
•How someone else was right.
•How you hurt people.
•Making you even more wrong.
•I’ll provide a ten page paper, double spaced, APA format with sources, references, and citations to validate my information.
•I’ll draw a flow chart on the damn white board to literally show you, how you were wrong.

A is for Annoying.

“She was. Frustratingly so.”

“Mama was obsessed with you?”

He smirked at his daughter. “She was one of my many fangirls.”

“That’s…” she stared at him surprised for awhile, but then narrowed her eyes.

“You’re being totally obnoxious, Papa.”

B is for Bastard

“You’ve been friends with Mama since childhood, yeah?”

“Hn.”

“How’d you treat her that she came to like you so much?”

The man blinked, suddenly embarassed that he had been such a bastard to his then unknowingly future partner.

“He played hard to get,” her mother suddenly said, with a wink to their daughter, surprising the two. She then turned to look pointedly at the dark-haired man. “Very, Very, hard to get.”

C is for Communication

“How’d you tell her ‘I love you’? You know, the first time?”

He didn’t really know what to say. Embarrassed, for he wasn’t the one to say outright those words, he stared at his wife, and she responded with both her eyebrows raised. Sensing that her husband wouldn’t speak, she shook her head and smiled at their daughter, giving her a gentle poke in her forehead with her index and middle finger as an answer.

Guren has better handwriting than me what the fuck and why is he writing in English?