Eardrum Lemonade.
These are some of the sounds in my ears when I’m strolling around downtown on a sunny day. In case you were wondering.
Re-teaching myself how to take pictures with a DSLR. So, for right now, things that sit still are my favorite subjects.
Sound advice.
Today We Discovered:
Your heart learns to ache in an entirely new way the first time you see the signs of fading youth reflected in a former lover’s eyes.
Helen of Troy, the Marionette in the Box, and Me (pt. 1)
3 o’clock in the morning finds Helen of Troy barefoot amongst the husks of sunflower seeds, standing on the meager slab of concrete that claims to be her front porch. Thin t-shirt; jeans rolled at the cuffs to expose the only sturdy bones in her body: those agile ankles. She’s always mixing her mythologies. She leans heavily against the rusted wrought-iron pillar before her and the tension in the sinew beneath her moonlit skin is the only tangible indicator of her uneasiness.
Her sense of smell was the first to go, and then she burned up in the sun and died. [THE END]
Little Girl with toothpicks for tibia and marbles for ankles: She was manufactured for jumping fences and being knocked down. Her stride is jagged as she hurtles in the direction of something; anything, because she knows what she is running from, but has not a clue where she is headed. She refuses to slow down, so she’s always scraping her up her knees and knuckles, that Little Girl, because she knows how easily smiles full of teeth and rib cages full of hearts can be shattered, and she certainly does not fancy that.
Falling down hardly phases her, though, because her chin is wired to an invisible focal point just above the horizon, and it keeps her focused; always looking up. She envies the giants who walk with their heads in the clouds, but she’ll never admit that to anyone. There are so many things she keeps to herself because they would be too much trouble to try and explain. Like colors – like how she’s always chasing after colors.
Leveled up in Nerd today.
Sometimes I wonder.
Sometimes I wonder how it must have felt to be a member of a famous boy band, sitting alone on the edge of the bed in some hotel room with his head cradled in his hands, thinking, “No. No. No.”
Because, I mean… We’ve all been there, right? We just didn’t necessarily have a Top 40 or two tucked under our belts. I imagine it feels odd— like that burning tickle that feels like mild nerve damage— and that it smells like Axe body spray.
But I could be totally wrong.
“I know, man. It’s like… There was this tiny moment in my life— this little fraction of a speck of a dust cell on the lungs of the space-time continuum— when, like… Oh, man, it was incredible. I was in in this state of being where, like, I could just turn on an episode of ‘Parks and Recreation,’ and I’d be listening to the credits jingle away and I’d think, ‘This is the happiest I will ever be, and I am completely at peace with that.’ Man. I want to be that high again. No, I want to be that high forever. …Hey, how do you know if you’ve reached nirvana? …No, man, like the bodhisattva kind. …Oh. …Hey, did you eat the last of the American cheese? Frig. …How about the Cinnamon Toast Crunch?”
