Freckle, freckle....

Oh, mother, how pretty the moon is tonight
She ne'er was so pretty before.
Her two little horns are so sharp and so bright
I hope she won't grow any more!
If I was up there, with you and my friends,
We'd fit in it nicely, you'd see.
We'd sit in the middle, and hold on at both ends
What a wonderful cradle 'twould be.
And there we would stay, 'til the dawn of the day
And in the bright clouds we would roam;
We would see the sun set, and see the sun rise
And on the next rainbow come home.

Unknown

All the important things I ever knew, I learned from my mother. Except for my past, but then, she never knew about that. How could she? I don't even know if she was there.

"That's no moon!"

It's horrible to see people's work stepped on. You're always your own worst critic, and it's never great when something doesn't turn out the way you wanted it to. But to have people you trust simply take it and break it and make it how THEY want, without permission? That's a major betrayal.

It always makes me sad when this happens to people. It's happened recently. I don't know the person, but I read their blog, and I like their work, and they worked so hard on this particular thing. It makes me so mad that people would do that - would take something that was someone else's and change it, without permission, for money.


"What world is this? What kingdom? What shores of what worlds?"

Second star to the right

I'm about as good as Peter Pan at giving directions. Taking directions isn't my strong point either, making me feel like I'm stuck in a loop of Sinatra, sometimes. You're taught to be independent, but sometimes it backfires.

Whenever someone in a movie falls in love, there's always music. Makes you think that when it happens to you, when you finally realise that you've fallen in love with someone, that's what will happen. You'll hear music; an orchestra, a string quartet, a shoegazer band. In reality, there's no music - mostly it's silence, broken only by the pounding of your heart, the rush of blood in your ears, and your brain screaming wait, what? NO! Maybe some people do get music. The righteous. The innocent. Soul mates. LustLove-at-first-sight. Hormones bouncing around your brain like kids with ADHD, yelling look at me! Pay attention to me! until you have no choice but to listen. So empathetic with everyone else that I manage to miss what's in front of my nose until it's too late.

Epiphanies at the coffee machine are strange, making you feel even more exposed, like everyone knows what you're thinking. Life's too short for any kinds of regrets, so from here on that's it. I won't waste a second, because it's all too precious. I refuse to have any regrets about my life, because what's the point in holding back when maybe you won't even have tomorrow? I don't think I'll stop wearing odd socks, though.

Sometimes - more often than not - people will surprise you. Books judged by cover always turn out to have a twist.

We'll leave you kicking and screaming so you can thank us in the end

Sometimes I wish I could just listen to music normally, instead of like this, like every piece was so goddam important, like if I listen to it wrong it'll screw up the experience of it, or mess me up in some way. Of course, the danger is more that it won't mess me up - the CFOB Mixtape screwed me up to the point that I still can't listen to it like a "normal" album. One day I'll get to the point where I can listen to it when I'm not in the dark, lying on the floor as the music lights up every single one of my synapses like a goddam Christmastree. But not yet. I'm almost afraid to try.

If music didn't get all-the-way into my bloodstream I feel like I might be halfway to normal.

I spent the day with a mane again; the fluffiness almost suffocating me as I tried to move my head. I feel like it should be a fashion statement; really, it's just me being unable to brush out the tangles and giving up halfway through. (I'd turn this into a metaphor about my life, but I'm not quite that cliché.)

Reading an email with different fonts messed with my head today, remembering suddenly that the real difference between an uppercase 'I' with top-and-bottom perpendicular lines and an 'I' without is about forty years and facial hair. Then couldn't see anything else as I looked at the email and had to send it quickly before closing my eyes and trying not to look at any letters for a few minutes while my head cleared. It's more of a problem than it used to be because I know I'm overthinking it; where once I subliminated (because otherwise it drives you crazy) now I see them like crowds in front of me. Overthinking has always been one of my less enviable qualities.

Give me detached existentialist ennui.
Flash.

By guess and God and hope and hopelessness.

It's funny how families work; how the person you were least close to growing up ends up being, in a perverse, messed up way, the person you're closest to. It's amazing what adulthood and distance does to relationships.

Almost regretting invitations given in haste, but the things we do to make others happy should never cause regrets, even though they often do.

My pulse still feels sluggish, as if it's pumping stale alcohol to the surface of my skin to be sweated out. This would not surprise me. Every time, I'm left wishing that I was in possession of a modicom of impulse control. Aching, exhausted, and feeling like hell, but the memories are good, and you only live this lifetime once.

I wish the air was cooler. I feel as though I'm baking in my own skin, expecting to be extra crispy any day now. Part of me can't wait for winter, even though I love the summer. Yesterday felt like July; clear blue skies, brightbrightbrightness, butterflies chasing each other (in honest idiocy of flight). There was a sweetness to the day, memories of being young and lying in a hammock slung between trees as my dog ran around crazily, before coming to lie in the shade, panting at the heat. I miss her.

I wish I could cool myself down just by pressing a button on my arm. That would be awesome.

You're more than in my head, you're more

Sometimes saying what you mean is the scariest thing in the world, when people can be so unpredictable. It's easier to hide out in the lie, or just say nothing at all ("if you can't say something nice..."). But there are some things that need to be said, because otherwise things might just get worse. Festering in your brain until they burst out in a flurry of harsh words and harsher meanings.

Passive aggressive is not a lifestyle choice.

My friend's handwriting makes the lowercase letters feel like urchins, running around in rags with dirty faces, hollering at each other across dusty streets, skinning their knees when they fall.

Sometimes I miss being that young, but then I remember what it was really like. Rose coloured spectacles give a pleasant fantasy, but sometimes it's best to remember things the way they really were so that we can appreciate the present more fully.


'Bastian Balthazar Bux,' he grumbled. 'If I'm not mistaken, you will show many others the way to Fantastica, and they will bring us the Water of Life.'