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it seems mundane.
everyday is the same thing. the same schedule.
one would think it would be easier that way. . .
however, I find it absolutely oppressive,
following the same routine all the time.

I want something different, something new.
I want to see the world and explore other cultures.
I want to learn more languages and study foreign art and literature.
I want everyday to be an adventure. . .
not the equivalent of the day before.
May 22, 2015.
I’ve been walking down IKEA
however dull it sounds
I saw a girl
Round my age, maybe younger
With eyes as melancholic as mine
She was tapping Rachmaninov on a wooden table
with tears dripping down her hollowed face
And I shivered
Because I used to be her
I'm still repulsed by classical music and it still triggers
 May 2015 Ashley D Escobar
noah w
it itches
just below the skin, it itches
i itch
for burning throats and singing skies and skin torn open
feet untethered and bruising the ground
for clarity and racing wind and chaos
for something (anything) raw
i need to shatter
to be ripped apart
i need new tastes in this stale mouth
new thoughts in this static, stagnant brain
new ways for my muscles to ache
I have a question: how can i not doubt? how can I expect truth after a year of silence? there was a year of silence followed by loud bursts of colour that have rendered me blind to any such truth. silence; silence breeds an illness that can only burrow far - silently - until it can dig no deeper, and where it settles is the nest of doubt you have been hiding for so long. when the eggs hatch and the baby spiders of horrible truth and revelation come skittering around those cerebral planes, you can do nothing. it is known you are in love. silence; silence breeds a want, a deep slow burn of some diseased flame on a wick that can only wither into heavy dust, and this dust too will settle and it will melt into your mind and while you doubt, you know there is a reason you doubt. you know that you doubt because you are afraid. you are afraid of the truth that the flame ignites and you are afraid of the truth that will paint the walls of your skull when the baby spiders of realisation explode from the heat of the moment. you are afraid that after this silence you are right and that you are in love and you are afraid that after this silence you are right and that he is not
and then the baby spiders do what baby spiders do best. they crawl out and they feed on your heart and you can't do a thing until it's all gone
and when it's all gone he is gone with it and you are nothing but a spider's nest of cocooned doubt and hatred, the antithesis of life
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.
i need other people's words to fill my head
some days i hate the english language and
i want to throw myself away
Life - love - death - are all but a flicker of a flame;
     the flutter of a scarf in the breeze.
Here one moment,
     gone the next,
like slipping over the edge of sleep
and being wrenched back up again.
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