on letting go

need a quick diary/journal/emotion dump I guess.

I over-interpret everything.  I assume that not talking to me mean means she hates me, a refusal of a hug is complete and utter rejection, the list goes on and on.  My emotions are tied into everything I do and I interpret everything through that lens as well.

This makes things thing complicated when things like love get involved.

I feel sometimes emotions that aren’t actually there but still make me feel horrible.

I wish I was better at trust.

As long as I’m here I might as well hope for purpose.

And life.

And love.

Dear God, thank you for everything.

design

I want to make a post so I’ll work on this later.  Yeah.  Something else will be here eventually, no worries.

of three part one

I feel sort of pretentious and a little bit introspective right now.  That’s not really an invitation for anything but I assume that tumblr is for posting things that people don’t actually care about, yeah?

I am trapped.  Trapped like a mime in a glass box that only exists in my reality.  Everyone else looks in and says, “You’re not trapped, there is nothing that contains you,” but I only have to reach out and see that this prison I have created for myself is very real and tangible.  

I do not even know what traps me, yet all at once, everything seems to.  Everything is in its right place and they are all tied to my emotions.  I do not think about these deadlines as much as I feel my deadlines.  They weigh me down, not because I have trouble with them, but because I can feel them waste me away.  It is not as if I hope to procrastinate things, but I cannot comprehend how one does not feel the apathetic burning of time eating away their minds.  It is always there, feasting on my fears, hoping that I might succumb to its feeble but incessant plea.

And what of my emotions, the very things that drag me down and lift me up all at once, tearing me into pieces?  At the beginning of this season I hoped that this would change, that somehow there might be the happy ending, or at least a state of frozen apathy might take over.  Instead I have been pulled in all directions, every emotion on that palate of possibilities being dumped on my plate, forcing me to make sense of what cannot be deciphered.  Rejection cuts into your heart only so many times before it slices something vital and yet the irony is that time, the very parasite that sucks at my mind, is expected to heal the wounds of the heart. 

Soul, you have remained constant all along, but it will not be long before you are challenged like the others.  I may be living, what do I know of truly alive?  The inexplicable link between the mind and the heart will soon affect the nature of the trinity.

Yet I am not unhappy in most senses of the word.

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Anna, I know you’re reading this.

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I love you.

Death and the Compass

spanishenglish:

Of the many problems which exercised the reckless discernment of Lönnrot, none was so strange—so rigorously strange, shall we say—as the periodic series of bloody events which culminated at the villa of Triste-le-Roy, amid the ceaseless aroma of the eucalypti. It is true that Erik Lonnrot failed to prevent the last murder, but that he foresaw it is indisputable. Neither did he guess the identity of Yarmolinsky’s luckless assassin, but he did succeed in divining the secret morphology behind the fiendish series as well as the participation of Red Scharlach, whose other nickname is Scharlach the Dandy. That criminal (as countless others) had sworn on his honor to kill Lönnrot, but the latter could never be intimidated. Lönnrot believed himself a pure reasoner, an Auguste Dupin, but there was something of the adventurer in him, and even a little of the gambler.

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Today would have been Troy Davis’ 43rd birthday.

Never Forget  #iamtroydavis #endthedeathpenalty

(Source: socialistexan, via protestification)