We're all mad, here.

Was looking through my high school blog

And found the following pieces I wrote. Oh, my seventeen-year-old self:

Sometimes, I sit.
I sit, and then I think.

When the nine o’clock news report comes on, I sit on my couch and I watch and I think. I watch blaring headlines and rapid ticker tape running across the screen and explosions and babies crying and a person staring back at me and talking importantly with an expression like a blank piece of paper, hair coiffed and pinched and sprayed so it sits like a perfect helmet against a background of fake city skyline.
And I think about bombs and guns and needles and swords and presidents and terrorists and buildings and bridges and baseball players and drought and famine and that makes me think about food, so I think about the ice cream I had this afternoon and how I couldn’t eat it after a while, just watched the sweet cream drip from the soggy cone until it left a sticky trail down my arm, careening dangerously at my elbow before it dropped, pink, onto the cement below.

Last night I felt so low I climbed onto my roof so I could be up high. And I lay back against the sharp shingles with my hands folded under my head and I looked. I looked and I breathed and I counted the stars, except I lost count after ten or so and so I thought some more. I held my hand up and examined my palm, dark ridges sprawling a map of tiny connected lines across the taut flesh against the background of the night sky, littered with so many stars it was as if someone had thrown millions of diamonds across a dark velvet blanket. I traced my lifeline with the pad of my thumb and thought about how everything was connected like the canyons and valleys of my palm, a spiderweb of delicate gossamer silk threads intertwining worlds of people and things and how there are words hanging in the air, some sugary like candy canes and others snap-crackle-pop like hot chex mix. 
My ideas were like cotton candy clouds, poetry spilling out like rice from a bag, like gumdrops from machines, like fiery peppers spiking their way down your throat, white chocolate melting on your tongue, the feel of wet grass on your face and hot concrete under raised toes. 

I saw a flower growing in between the cracks of the sidewalk and I picked it up and looked into its center, so beautifully busy that it made me dizzy with wonder.

I looked in the mirror today and saw an inky ocean of hair, startled eyes, white light reflecting off of bronzed skin. 
I looked, and I thought, and I felt.
I felt the way the pillow feels when you flip it to the cool side against bare cheek and touching wet skin under rain, the mix of voices in a crowd rising, rising, till the noise is so loud that everything is quiet again and in slow motion, spinning like an electronic top, like cars electric light-sound whizzing by on busy freeways, fairy wings made from static noise and the thud of a hackey sack when it hits the ground and how the silence that follows the end of a song is louder than the music itself.
My eyes were quiet, dark clouds full to burst hanging heavy-lidded under arched eyebrows, and so I cried. And in my tears were mangoes and the smell of old books and silk-studded swooping pieces of fabric, bright colors boing-ing off of patterned street sneakers, strutting on sidewalks and the strum of an electronic guitar melting into loud, screaming sound, and then the hushed jingle of an earring, old leather and dark skin, rivers rushing through lush mountains, paved roads and browned hillsides and the fade of the last stringing chords of a violin. 

I touched my finger to my cheek and carried a tear on it, lifting it to my eye so I could look at it, a perfect prism that caught the light and in that light was rain, popsicles and clean laundry and sound echoing in an empty room, and it was nothing and it was everything all at once, reflected in a geometric jewel of elegant sadness. 

Sometimes I think like this. I sit, and I think.

Dating

whatshouldwecallme:

Most couples:

Me and my boyfriend: 

When I try to study in bed

(Source: well-fly-ofcourse, via whatshouldwecallme)