it grows it grows it grows it grows it grows This mud is empty and I just wish everything was real enough to memorize. It doesn't matter. I've been criticising this and that and everything in me. I never used to do that. This glow, it is just the ache burning continuously. It is like an electron, too fast, too unpredictable, and it just goes away anywhere at times. It's like synth-pop, soothing but fragmented. It seems unreal. It should be unreal; I don't think it's mine. I am tired. Or maybe I am afraid. Or I'm afraid to tell you I'm tired. I was fighting with everyone today, shouting louder than I used to sing. I used to sing. Out of my hands. Oh am I tired? Am I allowed to be? Will you allow me to be? I don't know. I am just sick of reading about stars and sunsets and flowers and blue waters. I need slowness, slowness all in its glory, a thick syrup crawling down my unshaved legs, a slow slow slow swim in luscious muddy waters with eyes closed, a slow moment where my lashes seem to take forever to just flutter and if I snap, I want it slow. A slow snap. Slow. If this ache glows and grows everyday, it might as well allow me to feel the process. I'm plain scared. And tired. And tired of being scared. And shit. ________ For everyone who was expecting a light rant and is now disappointed: i will be commenting about my legs some day this year and it will be funny. #diary? Or somethin like #mud
