“One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.”

I’m a writer. Or, I think I am–maybe it’s better to say that I used to be. I didn’t have the voice yet to explain why I was the way I was, why I felt what I did. I wrote everything, I thought more, and I crawled inside ink and lost myself in the spine of books, immersed myself in the stories of books and curled around the plot of films, envisioned that one day everything would (stop) and I’d suddenly feel wonderful, fall in love, struggle, hate, love, lust. It’s so strange seeing where I am now. It’s not a bad thing, necessarily, only that my perception of things have broadened and I have so much  intangible hope about life, and the people in it, and the people who I’ve met and will be meeting. This is a late night/early morning ramble, but I’ve spent the day opening my head and wandering through the cartilage between the vertebrae that make up my spinal column, craving this uncertain achievable density in emotions and swapping memories and what we viewed our childhoods like with my older brother.* (Excerpts from Mira Gonzalez, Heartbroken People With Extreme Personality Flaws”)


Current Song of the Week:


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