today is the first page of a blank 365 page book. you hold the pen-- it's yours. make it good.

i want to write out what this feeling is like but i’m so ******* sick of my own metaphors
i don’t want to write about how deep the ocean is or how i can feel this and that in my bones
i don’t want to be that kind of writer, i don’t want to be cliché
i just want to say that i’ve felt so detached lately, like i’m made of different parts taken from different junk yards and i have a feeling in my gut that i’m either going to be a really big nothing or a really small something
i want to be good at something
writing and being poetic is too easy
why are we so easily fascinated by someone who can compare two unlikely things and talk about how the sky bends and how your fingers tremble at the thought of being destructive
this is too easy

it was almost like he threw his soul and everything that bounded him as a human being just went away.

i like to think of my eyes as broken cameras that can't focus properly on their own
i love my glasses honestly
i love to take them off when i'm in the passengers seat of a car at night because the city's fuzzy lights look so pretty
you don't get that with 20/20 vision

captain's log, #6

3/7/16, 9:17 a.m.

i woke up to the sound of rain and birds, it's almost spring and i'm nostalgic for something that i'm not sure has happened yet. 

captain's log, #7

3/11/16, 2:35 a.m.

at this point i don't even know why i still grieve over you. i've taken back what was once mine, to the best of my ability, but i think that you still have a tight grip on the parts of me that i'm not able to grow back. or maybe it's because i can't remember a time before i was either madly in love with you, or mourning the loss of your interest. me being "over it" means nothing when those words are still etched with traces of you. i can tell myself to get over it, that you have, that you're in the past, that none of this was ever real, but it was. it still is, somewhere. and in that somewhere, it grows. you will never be just, gone. 

captain's log, #8

3/11/16, 4:00 a.m.

let's go somewhere. somewhere far away, just for a while, where everyone else looks like ants. i wanna hold your hand there. i wanna go somewhere with you. 

captain's log, #9

3/16/16, 6:00 a.m.

it's only the beginning of a creation, but i already have that feeling in my gut, the one that can only accurately be described as nostalgia for the future. i feel things that don't make any sense, but here are some things i know; the weather's getting warmer, the days are getting longer, the flowers are tearing themselves open, and when i close my eyes i see your hand in mine. often times i'm not sure that i remember how to not be afraid, but i still find myself diving in head first. i can't stop thinking about two days ago when my therapist told me that it seems as though i like torturing myself. 

(EDIT ON 3/30/16: stop forcing yourself to like girls, stop falling in love with love.)

captain's log, #10

3/28/16, 7:04 p.m.

keep forgetting to write when i remember how to be happy. when she left, she didn't close the door, and he walked right in and turned on the lights that have been off for too long. his teeth are a little crooked, and he's only got one dimple, he hates these things but they make my chest flutter like it'll burst into a thousand flowers any second. i've waited months for this. i wish on every 11:11 that he won't be as fleeting.