I am happy.

 I am a happy happy person and that is why when I meet people I smile and laugh and that is why I speak.

And when I'm with my family I try awful hard to be animated and be involved and when I'm with my friends I try awful hard to like what they like

because the easiest people to be with are the ones who know you the least
the easiest people to be with have no preconceived opinions about what you'll do or say today, no expectations and it's completely up to you
you mustn't blow it by not being yourself.

So, like I told tumblr before I told you, LJ, I'm sorry
I drew an eye whose eyelashes were tied up with a ribbon in a bow
it was strange
first I drew shapes, then I thought "hey, it looks like an eye whose eyelashes have been tied together"
and so later on that day that's what I drew
and there was a boy who said he has an art scholarship and maybe he's much better at art than me but just wait
just wait and see, boy
just wait and see.
You walk that way, I'll walk this way.

(no subject)

 Our love is dead but without limit
like the surface of the moon
or the land between here and the mountains
and it is not these hiding places that have kept us innocent
but the way you taught me to just watch it all float by

it was always horribly convenient and happening too fast
you should count your change before you're even out the door

please return, return to the person that you were and I will do the same
'cause it's too hard to belong to someone who is gone
my compass spins
the wilderness remains

but once too often I've retreated into the depths of my despair
I built a barricade to block you on the road
I was standing there with all of my possessions piled higher than a house
and I felt closer to you than you ever would have known

build the monument that will commemorate our times
and though you swear you've found another who will surely speed you on your way,
don't let the forest grow over the path you came there by
but you will, so
so hurry up and run to the one that you love and
blind her with your kindness
and she'll make war, oh war
on who you were before
and claim all that has spoiled in your heart
now I tell myself I've mended
under these patches of blue sky
there's still a few holes that let in a little rain
(I've got reason to complain)

BUT I'm not gonna bless you with such compliments
some degrading song of praise
like the kind that converted me to you so long ago
because the truth is that's gossip's as good as gospel in this town
So hurry up and run to the one that you love and tie her up in your blackness
and she'll become, become the prisoner I was
and know all that has spoiled in your heart
yeah she's gonna know it all.
Valmik I promise I will reply to your email tonight.
Michael you're so annoying.

(no subject)

 I think that in the olden days, most probably science and literature were respectful of each other
these days they are both ignorant of each other
they refuse to acknowledge their antagonistic situation

science likes to think it can continue without language and disregard its intricacies because they are not a required speciality

literature seems to think it can twist words around scientific fact and push it out of the way
take it out of the foundation
don't you see it is always the foundation?
the only reason writing about flying is appealing to read is because science will prove it impossible
to be so bold as to contradict fact you must acknowledge fact as fact

to state fact you must use the right words
fuck the new world.

(no subject)

 Dear Valmik,

Today after school I went to London and met Joe to pick up and eighth of chocolate.  We were going to go to his friend Vincent's house in Eastham (which is a horrible place really) and eat the chocolate but when we found out my parents wanted me home by ten fucking thirty we decided there would be no time, so we went to brick lane and I bought him cigarettes and rizla and la la la and tried to get served at not our regular place and got bare rejected.

And it was a very lovely evening although I kept wondering if he was bored out of his mind specially later on in the night because when I'd first met him he was high and wouldn't take off his sunglasses and then afterwards I was awful quiet because I always am but also because I spoke to my Mom yesterday and told her about February and I was really happy I'd gone

up until I got home and saw my bedroom and just wanted wanted wanted to speak to you and I wished and wished that I had stayed home.

But I am glad I went

I don't love you all that much as I used to anymore. I could explain that a lot but my eyes won't stay open I'm having some chocolate and going to bed

Love love love from Simi

(no subject)

 She spends her days inside a fishbowl. 

He spends his days in the rain.

The assumption is that the quality of their souls would have some likeness that had been imprinted on them from the watery-ness of their surroundings and you might say they were used to each other.

If I were to assume that, I would assume, therefore, that while I breathe this unique mix of oxygen, nitrogen and carbon dioxide and walk around in between the particles, and while you do the same the quality of our souls would have some likeness and we might be used to each other.

Well I'm waiting for you in the elevator because I told you
I told you I told you I told you we could get to the top
and you promised this time you'd be here on time for the final ride but the second hand has moved ninety times in the past minute and I know how fast your legs are walking and I know that if I work it out you'll never make it on time
And you know that I won't go without you so you brought me a raincoat and your brought your gills and the words that will leave your mouth with be some tasteful compositions of
go promise baby I tomorrow we'll sorry

(no subject)

 I am I terrible sufferer of seasonal affective disorder
everybody is.

We all get the winter blues.

It suddenly just clicked in my brain like a lock in a door or the cogs in the clock that I am

over what happened with Valmik and Chelsea. Please note the specifics, though, I still hurt a little but
it's bearable
it is no longer itchy.

Thank you.

I hate my tumblr

 Because it's like I really have locked myself away. I mean, even now there's no way I'd ever get back into the head of the girl I was a year ago who kept herself secretly on this website.

I hate myself at school.
I hate myself around Becky.
I hate myself around Bryony.
I hate myself around Jenna.
I hate myself around Michael.
I hate myself around Joe.
I hate myself around Kavir.
I hate myself around my family.
I hate myself around Mia and Eleanor and Beth.
I hate myself in Music.
I hate myself in Art.
I hate myself on the bus.
I hate myself in the morning.
I hate myself during the day.
I hate myself at night.

I wish I was still pining over Valmik because at least then I was the girl who was pining over Valmik not
seventeen girls.

Corrina, Corrina

 It's like without a you I don't need a me.

There are a number of ways to look at your reflection in the window of a train.
There are a number of ways to deliberately stare into the greyish blank past the image of yourself on the scratched plastic and ignore the fact that you have been suspended two-dimensionally on the vertical plane.

It all depends on who you dress for in the morning.
You might dress for the people you see on the way to school. You might dress for the ones you know and say hello to or you might dress for everybody on the bus who you don't look at but keep your head down and your phones in.

You might dress for the teachers at your school or you might dress for the kids. You might dress for the school down the road.
You might dress for the people on the train on the way to your favourite place or you might dress for the people on the street or the people you meet in the evening and sit in the gutter with drinking

or you might dress for a celebrity who lives in a beautiful house and wears beautiful clothes
with a beautiful face and beautiful words.

You might dress for god.

You might dress for a boy in a far away country with shiny black hair and skinny wrists.
You might dress for the masses of people you see stepping so purposefully through London in the morning with their coffee and cigarettes and blackberries and brogues.
You might dress for Vogue.

We are jejune stars.

 And I think it's important to be completely saturated with fresh air particles at least once in your life
There has to be ONE day when you wake up in the morning with a desire for food
a need to throw your cigarettes all away and no compulsion to pour glass after glass of whiskey
down your burning throat
And I think that whatever place you reach, when you finally are in that state of mind is something we call "leafy"
like the reason that we like trees
and the reason that we will always choose spring water over that from a tap
and there's something so very nice about hearing your voice clear but double 
as if you were speaking to me through a funnel
that you placed in the ceiling of the basement 
so that I can hear it all from the floor of the kitchen
and it's nice that you finally got the hang of matching all the instruments up
so that the music kinds of all binds together to make one sound
even though it was nice when you staggered it and it was nice when you fucked up
and the mistakes became recordings in the basement of your parents house
and I know that you don't really call it a basement because it's just the ground floor of your house
but it's much more romantic and fits a lot better with our teenage image
and I know that it was all kind of boring and specially now that we found out about drugs 
but it just seemed so big and wonderful and awfully uplifting as if we were being pulled up
as if we might be on our way to heaven
but in case you hasn't guessed or in case somebody lied to you
like they lie about Santa and the easter bunny
and the tooth fairy and the virgin Mary
and baby Jesus in is manger swaying
to the sounds of Mary quite contrary
while she watered her plants in the cold fresh air
and she dreamed of a garden, all green and untouched
that was lonely and neglected and completely unloved
it used to be living and colours, immaculate
each blade of the grass used to face the same way
and the flowers were born when the dewdrops would stray
from their road to the sky in between bits of air
and the flowers made love to the insects who stared
and their beautiful petals while drinking from their 
but then somebody reached up to the fruit of the tree
and she pulled it right off and tossed it towards me
and said if I ate that I'd be told happily
all the things that there are to know about living
so I put the yellow up against my lips
and opened my mouth, with my teeth broke the skin
I was flooded with joy despair anger knowledge
it's nothing as good nothing as pretty
nothing as special or white or glittery
there are no angels because they have all been thrown
beneath the bowl into the world
so while they swim around London and Somalia
you just get stuck in a massive white cotton ball.