gravity-burst.

(via trixmix) fuck, who am i kidding? i miss this face on my caller id, my dashboard… i can’t fucking get over it yet.

tacos aren’t the same without you, but we’re still planning a taco crawl in your honor.

the riot be the rhyme of the unheard.

communication through writing rarely ever gives off innermost feelings, unless chosen to do to so by the writer firsthand. in written voice you can drop hints or be as straight up as you want, but either way, it’s by choice.

words on papers and computer screens focus solely on the words and its context instead of venturing off [and potentially losing meaning] in verbal execution.

even in a whirlwind of madness and controversy, a calm sets in. you pick and choose your train of thought, and should you feel it not enough or flawed in some shape or form, you can go back. over and over again. in person? not so much.

there’s a sense of involuntary permanence to verbal words. thinking and speaking and getting out what you mean in the same form you thought it is an intense multi-tasking engagement (unless you happen to be talented in this, for which i’m not).

once said, every word uttered is up for grabs. going back only puts emphasis on what has been said rather than what is trying to be said. don’t even get me started on the effects of intonation and inflection to simple word choice.

for some there’s a limitation in trying to rid of that you-wish-were-indiscernible neon sign on your forehead screaming mental brawl. (hand raised)

so in this instance i’m the writer, choosing to share that i’m extremely confused.

in typical mid-20s fashion, the expected brain suckers from career to family are present. but those aside, there are days i’m neither angry or sad but bonkers enough to wonder 1) why, out of all people, she had to be taken away 2) when the hell will be shaken from the things (people) i touch. it’s gen-y entitlement issues with an emo-like twist.

it’s like i’m walking on eggshells, waiting for the unexpected i don’t want to hear.

and i’m sparing myself from the ‘death is a part of life’ bit. not ready.

there’s something about this place that somehow resurfaces the needs-a-hug child in me.

can’t listen to best coast

without thinking of trixie layhadi.

or theophilus london.
or mayer hawthorne.
or boyz noize.
or the fugees.

or… a lot of things.

[sigh] this is hard as fuck.

terminal 20/20 vision.

relation with minimal words
running
through backyards
through rain
from pain and conceit
i wonder where the axial gods are
at times like these

they say, “chapter’s end”
but this wasn’t a book
maybe it wasn’t about companionship
maybe it was about survival
and we didn’t see
but you saw—
clenching a different look

love hustler
foggy, vacant views
shipping and handling required
to the blind carton revolver
while kindred fooled

the prescription impairs,
the motion blur endured
making it harder to get to you

you’re the undrugged dope
that transports
new thrill
and electric hope to my soul
versus distance
and suspired pressure
nearsighted judgement manipulates
the unmatched, ricocheted desires
down to the slinky-ed coil springs
down to the bottom wire
stagnant

across the pink walls
in place of the emptied furnishings
lay the black and teal binoculars to confusion
the corrective misleader
to a flawed but loved being
precious in her own way

fatigue washes over
the insulated weeping
running
alone, through backyards
through rain
to pain and conceit
retinal exposure to sealed eyelids
running blind

run back instead, to me

ended my false hopes in santa early on.

i had this one aunt who had typewriter handwriting and felt the need to enforce the skill on me 823127836560725 hours a day, when all i wanted was to sit down with a boombox in my room and drown her out. here’s little 1991 version of yours truly who would have killed to be going over boring multiplication tables or something that seemed far more significant than the importance of typewriter-like handwriting.

and then i noticed it. every fucking ‘from santa’ box donned that flawless cursive.

to a little 5 year old, this was pretty much equivalent to your dreams shattering. i spent that christmas playing detective. not because i was clueless as to who wrote on the gift tags, but because i needed to know the who what where and whys of a lot of things.

i mean, screw you high and mighty santa, who am i trying to be good for? how about myself, thankyouverymuch. not the counterfeit fat dude in a suit.

i was always uncomfortable with any other logic on this apart from my own. so fast forward a couple years, i guess you can say this mini story can be applied to my work ethic, interests, even relationships. (not santa, but the detective work.)

i don’t see things for what they are. to always be at some form of discretion as if i have x-ray vision for the gods is expected. i look for an “a ha!” moment. so i work my ass off, within reason. i add interests, within reason. the same approach is rampant in my relationships, both romantic and platonic. maybe i’m just oddly wired that way.

it’s a habitual pattern but runs in full swing. to ‘give into’ a new person in my life holds the potential to be as dream shattering christmas 1991. to put your trust into someone then getting stomped on is gruesome, it’s robbery.

with that said, most of my relationships need time to flourish. it’s like i don’t want to get to a place where i have to need to be collecting evidence. rarely do things ever ‘click’ and in the rare moments they do, it’s fascinating. it takes a very special person for me to pack up the questions and give up the relentless investigating.

so aside from all the obvious reasons, this is why i miss you the most. never had i felt the need to pick you apart to death… we could just be. it was a great feeling. the best.

these all seem like simple things but are a bigger deal than what scratches the surface.

people say the people you lose come around in another form. what — in reverie? as a feeling? in a [physical] person? i can’t fill that void and in fact i refuse a substitute friend for the space you occupied. what we had can’t be recreated.

the world was here for you to take in your hands. i hate you couldn’t carry out your dreams; you were only beginning. i may have not been your best friend, but you touched my soul in a way a best friend would and it’s the hardest thing to shake.

snowless.

not that i miss the ugly slush it turns into or how because of it an earlier wake-up schedule is put into place to initiate a car warm up and dodge traffic.

but it just isn’t christmas in the absence of the white little critters of precipitation.

it leaves a lack of need to long for the taste of eggnog, the smell of cinnamon, the designated time to wrap presents perfectly, or fill the space with bing crosby tunes.

amongst other things i wasn’t exactly expecting the holiday cheer to really come in full force this year but i at least wanted the feelings of all of the above.

i still have the checkout tab open for the hello kitty top i planned on buying for you this christmas since you said you never got around to buying any piece from the collection.

they’re singing ‘deck the halls’, but it’s not like christmas at all…

singing through the pain like i was mary j.

miss trixmix: i’m having a hard time dealing with whether or not this or that happened, would you still be here feeling… and beating myself over our last encounter.

my last night with you consisted of a sleepover, but it wasn’t a fun one. we patched it all up soon after, exchanging i miss yous and planning out upcoming excursions, but a voice inside my head keeps wondering if it had been patched up enough. k says i have to stop focusing on the what ifs, but it’s difficult not to. i’m sure he’s just trying to help me out of my slump because i know it’s hit him hard, too.

“she’s the type of person you saw being there in your future house in your future life bringing you cookies and being aunt trixie to your future kids,” he says. and in an unexpected instance you’re not there anymore?

i still don’t even know where to begin coping with that.

it’s painful but it beats never knowing you at all, which we both know would’ve been the circumstance had it not been for an ex-bf and tumblr. i hope you’re at peace… and have said goodbye to the world fully aware of how much you’re loved.