Heavy hands prevent me from writing about gauziness. My head is packed full of blood and brocade.
It wrinkles my nose.
I wish I could be easily inspired to write about aluminum eyeshadows. Write about flecks of sunlight that sing on my skin. Write about whispers so bright that my head threatens to explode into candy.
I suppose it's a trained skill; a different medium. Like a watercolor painter with a pot of oils. Staring at them suspiciously. Apprehensively. Too rich. Too foreign.
The bone and the bleach. The whippoorwill and willow tree. Cherry blossoms and scars. Ash and dust. They come much easier to me. Simply and comfortably, with the weight of the lowest frequencies.
That's my own confirmation bias, isn't it?
Juvenile and angsty to the last.
Oh, me.
11:30 p.m. - 2014-10-29
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
My profile
Archives
Notes
Diaryland
Random
RSS
others:
As-I-know-it
Nicim
Breathe-Salt
Swordfern
Star-Brite
Swallowthkey
ATwoWayDream
HumHum
Secret-motel
AndWeBreathe
MovingSands
WeAteTheSea