Self Known

A fear that haunts me: I am letting my glory days pass me by as moments straddled between Netflix and self-doubt. It seems I so often lack the courage to gather my tools and build something out of myself. I am unhappy, but content. To live among the shadows hurts, but this initial pain makes it worth avoiding the sting of the light. Something I've come to believe is the fact that some people are born with It. The It - charisma, talent, humor, attraction - whatever the positive quality, it combines with one part charm and another part luck. And a star is born. But this notion is tragic. And, admittedly, quite sad. Especially on the days when I count myself outside the circle of those who possess It. The truth of the matter is not that a handful have It, but that It is contained within 100% of all living, breathing cases. To varied, unlocked degrees. Sometime after my muse passes and the words empty themselves out, I will long for It. Emotional beings such as myself seem...

Simple yet lovely. What's your favorite aesthetic?

Bah-bum. Bah-bum. Bahbumbahbumbahbum. Realize it or not, there are many things symbolized by the progression of a not so straight line. Your heart rate. Blog stats. The rise and fall of pleasant (and not so pleasant) emotions. The complexity and depth of a plot. The taking off and landing of aircraft. There is so much held within the lines that aren't straight and here I am, pen in hand, trying to split my life down the middle with ink. The line looks like a worm and the merciless mocking cackles I hear are only echoed within my thoughts so I'm going to take it as it is. I am going to look at my work and say Hey. Look at that. It's beautiful. How I can draw and articulate my hands and - my my how wonderful is the creation of the pencil. Then you will ask how this relates back to the beginning, and I will answer, "Does it have to? This is a passage about squiggles, not circles." What makes your heart beat? 

via I enjoy adding to your blank pages, and scribbling the words my brain conjured up, just to get rid of the white space. You know I can't stand it when you're bare and blank. It's hard for me to look at you when you're this way. So I fill you up. I change you. To make myself feel better. When I add to you--when I change you--do you know how wonderful that makes me feel? To have my thoughts flow out of my brain, through my pen, and onto your wonderful white skin. It's a beautiful, extravagant progress. And sometimes I can't help but think you enjoy it too.