Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.– eloquently put by the wonderfully absurd Franz Kafka.
the white envelope
his dog stood on two legs and clawed at your nylons when you walked into his house. Seven gold condom wrappers were strewn about the hardwood floor, some were hidden in jeans or shirts, three were torn open. His string of Hanukkah lights lining his headboard clicked against the brick wall. At one point you screamed for mercy. You tried to hide the rapture you felt but you couldn’t. You went...
when I am upset I drink jasmine tea because it’s expensive and it makes me feel like a princess, like the way he used to make me feel. I put five little jasmine balls in a cup and wonder how they tied them so tight and I pour boiling water over them and watch them in my cup for what feels like an hour. I watch them blossom and grow so big, like they’re alive and they grow and make a...
How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.– insight from the brilliant Sylvia Plath.
I read. When I’m upset and I don’t want to talk to anyone because I know that nothing can make this better, I read. I read because real life is too fucked up to deal with and when I read it goes away and I’m living someone else’s story. I’m living the story of a hispanic girl in the slums of a big city, or the story of a princess who is rescued by her true love and...