I like that I used to think owning property,
meant deep breathing in places I eventually forget if I lost the ability to see.
I hoped my insides would move about,
intestines unfurl, bones shaved, lines between head and heart reroute,
So the air from seas, stars, and cities could sprawl,
and my land would fill me ‘til I grew over every cloud and wall.
I imagine I would eventually collapse inside,
the world I breathed and needed contained in the blood tide,
But the kingdom I built faced unexpected rezoning,
people paid off my mind for a memory; my selfish control needed atoning,
and every year, I grew, I saw, and I breathed with a slight moaning,
as I tried to remember whose body I thought I was owning.
Sometimes, when I lean my head the prescribed amount,
and give you what my older brother told me was the right amount of tongue,
I scrunch my eyes and imagine I’m absorbing every compliment you’ve ever received.
It’s for when your legs get tired of jumping into snow banks after me,
and the bags under your eyes swell shut waiting up for me,
I can take custody of every good thing said about you.
I’d only keep them on weekends, but I’d claim them as my own,
and hope no one could ever see,
the only reason I value myself,
is from you kissing me.
I know it must appear I only come here to spill my graceless thoughts every few months or so, but I guess that’s been the case for every journal I’ve ever kept. I’ve never been one to write every single day or keep a workout regime for more than 3 weeks or past an injury or two. I’m hoping what matters is that I show up when I have something to say, not forcing words upon you and wasting both our time.
I write to you from an oddly uncomfortable bed in Connecticut. I’m wearing a flannel that either belonged to my late grandmother or my poppy…my mother is convinced they both just traded clothes until the end, even though they argued a lot. I’d enjoy a marriage like that, I think. Minus the arguing, obviously.
Let’s just get to it. I don’t post on here really. I fell in love with having a music blog and I never looked back. I guess, more importantly, I had a good year. I guess that good year came with the price of not having much inspiration to write, but I would do anything over. Not even that one crash-and-burn date I had in the summer or the awkward picture I took for my internship. There were stories this year, beautiful people I met, parties I actually loved, girls I kissed, girls I didn’t and wish like hell I did, and motion made. It’s overwhelming and I’ve missed that feeling.
I don’t know how much I’ll be blogging on here. It’s nice to come back and read what people think of my writing…you all are very kind and generous with comments. But, in case I don’t come back often, find me on my music blog, Casa Del Cage. Also, I’m apparently a Tumblr whore now and I have a 3rd blog for my upcoming travels in York, England called Tim vs. The Pond. Please, if you’d like to read a travel blog where the traveler just doesn’t give a shit and posts dumb things, follow.
Sherlock’s on though and Benedict Cumberbatch is just the sassiest motherfucker to grace my laptop screen, so this is goodbye for now. Be well, friends. Happy new year.
I’m trying to write again.
Everything’s going better now. Much better some nights, I think. Thank you, everyone.
I find it wildly interesting that the more we age and make sense of this world, the less people make sense as they grow with it.
I felt a tremendous distance between me and everything real. — Hunter S. Thompson (via anchorofh0p3)
(Source: observando, via aheavy-heart)
I miss this so very much.
But in all honesty, I love the Olympics. Start to finish, the stories, games, upsets, awkward classic rock bands combining with new pop stars in the Closing Ceremony and all. I even grew fond of NBC’s below-competent coverage with the censorship, huge delays, 500 hours of commercials, and only 34 hours of actual Olympic footage.
Before you get all excited though, sports dudes, I was basically just another follower watching for women’s gymnastics, diving, swimming, tennis, and a few other sports.
But seriously, dudes, who couldn’t love the Fab 5? Those girls just rule beyond comprehension. Yes, you may high five me for that.
And then let’s simultaneously remember that most of the Fab 5 are sixteen year old girls and very much not legal. Except for Aly Raisman. Aly, I would so let you [insert any awkward, gymnastic euphemism here] on me all night. But seriously, you’re probably able to break all my bones and all I’d really want is a nice dinner out sometime.
London 2012, you made sitting in front of a TV a lot feel productive and worldly. Until Rio, I guess…