the click clacking sound of my keys

happy wrapped! a timely tradition that excites me a bit less every year, but thematically might be the most important when i've been coiled around the sun once more. blessed, but cursed, i can scroll through my "top songs of 2025" and pinpoint exactly how i stood emotionally for whatever three to five minute duration lingers on my screen.  the big 5: did my best - the voidz i can only change what i can change fuck - forth wanderers i can't start anything with a full heart back to me - the marias if i would see you i'd fall apart get me away from here, i'm dying - belle and sebastian i always cry at endings taste - rob crow never try to lose that taste forever listen here

i've started to come to a terrible realization; there will always be checks and balances. it seems i have to sacrifice my creativity for happiness. can i really only write when i'm sad or ashamed or torn up about something? does all great art have to come from the scraps after you've been torn to shreds? i've been feeling a great amount of fear, recently. moments that have required me to be brave are poisoned with secrecy and neglect. i wish to remain cryptic and nondescript even though it's futile. i'm learning apathy and anxiety at the same time. i wonder if i've begun reading so much more because i'm desperate for someone else to give me answers to questions i didn't know i could have. my arms seem to be locked in this half-raised position, where you're working up the courage to say something, and you lock eyes with the professor and resolve to scratching the back of your head like that's what you intended to do all along. i've said to...

iced americano breaking through a sweet pastry a freshly blown hairdo whipping against my face as it's tousled by wind dietary fiber a pair of headphones connecting the ears of two heads into one folding a dog ear into a library book mango sticky rice perfume roughness of stubble brushing over my collarbone crinkled linen duvets the lightness of pressing against a key on an electric piano removing the safety plastic off a brand new ballpoint pen synchronicity my mundane stuffed fish lost cause by beck friendly middle-aged male baristas

i'm trying to be a little off-the-cuff here, and i'm not sure if i'll be able to succeed. i haven't been able to write anything for a while now, and i wonder if it's simply because i'll have to face truths the second i hear the keys start to click. i've been growing out my fingernails for a month. they make my maneuvers clunky and awkward and slow. my fingernails look so beautiful in their envy, but they stop me from pushing forward. i now live in fear that something will make them snap or snag or chip. i'll have to cut them off and wait for them to grow again. but i like them now, because they're long. and maybe they mean something more. they might be the only part of me that's grown besides my cheeks. i think i'm getting a little fat. perhaps i'm becoming more of a woman. i'm packing up a life i've lived and come home to for 22 years now, still unearthing things from decades prior. picking them up stings my throat as the dust co...

sometimes, like other human beings on Earth, i feel a separation pulling my brain from my skull to float above the rest of my body. i'm entirely out of my own, almost like a birdseye lens on a camera. i am both a king and his jester. she looks like rot; haggard and vaporous. it's not necessarily contentment, unless that's synonymous with defeatedness.  there really isn't much that can be done here. so i just watch, marking a star on my calendar for Judgement day.

if a seagull screamed, "kiss her! kiss her!", how would you react? the worst way you can sabotage yourself is to be discouraged. i will always, always, always, give my ear to you.

i don't really quite understand the idea of letting things go. i can't believe i'm actually typing this out, but i would like to make a reference to a recent purchase of mine as metaphor for this topic. experiences in my life are kind of like a fresh pot of slime. if something feels so good to hold in my hands, i'd rather it actually just tack onto and directly cement to the skin of my palms, and i can center and accustom daily living around my new slimy hands even if i'm making a mess of things. i expect the body heat i radiate to keep the stuff pliable and useable for...ever. the longer it's in my possession, the worse i will feel if it were to dry out or be thrown away or confiscated for distracting my classmates who apparently got desensitized to bare shoulders. i guess this convoluted and terrible metaphor could be more intelligently explained with terminology we've all heard before-- sunken. cost. fallacy. sunken slime fallacy? slunken cost fallacy? su...