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“When I was younger, I was told that there is too much inside of me. That I have feelings where others have bone. At the age of seven, a doctor tapped inside my head and asked, “Do you choke on memories from time to time? Do you cry for no good reason at all? Do words take a hammer to your head and crack your skull?” Yes, yes, yes, I nodded. “Then you’ve definitely got them,” he said, as he checked off a box on his list. “Too many feelings. What a shame. Try not to keep them inside or you’ll drown.”

For awhile, I tried to follow his advice by pouring my feelings into boys’ mouthes until I was numb to the memory of ever being over-filled. I let myself go weak in their arms and became a hickey-covered exhale. But no matter how many times I offered my mouth like a flower to be plucked, the feelings spurted from my chest and soaked whoever came close in words.

I tried to expel my feelings by punching them out of my throat and using ink to exorcise them from my chest, but still, they covered me in tear-stained scars and left me to whither alone in the back of bars. Still, they had me running towards strangers’ cars, asking them if they knew how I could rid myself of my weak heart.

Finally, having had enough, I took a train outside my hometown to shed everything I cared about. On a grey beach, I dumped all of the feelings which threatened to keep me from living normally. Then came the moment when I had to decide if I would rather be liked or be who I am-too sensitive, too quiet, too honest, too burdened. And still undecided, I have not opened my mouth since.”

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“They dropped acid and saw the same full purple waves peeling back like the petals of a fresh flower. They took mushrooms in the mountains, washing them down with milk, and thought their brains had melted together, burned under the white mushroom moon. The has made them giddy–he performed for her, doing an uncanny Edith Piaf that made her scream; then they ate chocolate and kissed for hours. They hated speed, which made their nerves ache.

– Francesca Lia Block

It’s 5am and there’s white noise everywhere, silence that doesn’t quite tiptoe around empty. It’s difficult to slow down like this, to let time elapse long enough to piece together a coherent thought, to realize where and who I am. There is no particular train of thought, only jumbled indescribable thoughts and fears, feelings I’m incapable of properly articulating. Impossible for me to animate, to incarnate with tongue and teeth. It’s always only been thought. I think of how I’m an infinitesimal being, drunk with the great starry void. How I have galaxies hidden between my bones and only now have I become aware of them, I’ve woken up with the knowledge that the years have gone and there’s a comfort in that. I don’t recognize the person I’ve become, but I know I love her. I have questions that no one can answer, but my happiness has consisted lately of the acknowledging that this all feels like some great, strange dream.

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The great American adventure
Open roads vast and wide
Family packed inside the car while
the rest of the world is pushed aside

The midnight starlight
and the heart of the road
Nomadic by nature
this is our thrown.

Hotels, motels and stories to share
Wondering through the wilderness
as the wind cuts through our hair

Walking through history
Exploring the past
The hidden frontier of the States
Discovered at last

Lost in our voyage
Exploring the unknown
Gypsies of the restless
The world is our home

You know you’re alive very time you get up. That moment floating through consciousness, where you’re aware enough to know you’re awake but not functioning enough to give a shit. You’re just remembering to breathe and you aren’t quite thinking, only squinting because it’s too bright, listening to your heart hammering against your chest. Breathe in, breathe out. Then you move the wrong way, or stretch for too long, and you come crashing down. Your moment gets ruined by anxieties  and fears, and this gnawing sense of being uninspired and not being articulate, or intelligent enough, to express it coherently. You’ve always felt empty and only recently, you’ve been learning why. — scribbled at 4am

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Skye genuinely inspires me. My four year old niece is this bundle of energy and innocence and that hyper awareness you used you hold for the world around you. I wake up daily and practice the same routine: left leg straight, don’t step on it, hobble around and push responsibilities, push the real world outside for a bit. Until you can walk, until the scar that runs diagonal, that takes up the space underneath your knee, looks less pink and raw, until you can pretend that it isn’t noticeable. A lot has happened, and I’m thankful that one of us has kept Dolce de Skye alive. I promise to be around more, that Oscar post is months late, but it’s coming, and I have a lot to say. I’m grasping to figure out how to say it.
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