Bananafish are curious creatures. They swim into banana holes, and look quite normal at that point. Then, tragically, they eat so many bananas that they get incredibly fat, and can't leave the hole, subsequently dying of banana fever.
Lately I've been thinking a lot about why I have so much trouble and pain in my life, and I realized- it's because of my own thoughts. It's my own fault that I haven't let myself heal. I'm so afraid of falling that I don't try to stand up, instead simply wallowing in the mud. I'm making a conscious decision to try and help myself. It's about time.
The girl I love loves someone else, and I'm okay with that.
I've been listening to Next to Normal. Beautiful music. Beautiful story. Very easy to relate to.
I'm reading Mrs. Dalloway. I like it. It's a good novel. Stream of consciousness is an interesting form of writing, and Woolf writes beautifully.
Almost done with my first to-be-published short story. Looking forward to it.
The crack of a whip is actually the tip of the whip breaking the sound barrier.
33 years I have sung this song,
33 years you have taken my breath.
33 years you've strung me along,
33 years I'm waiting for death.
33 years I'm taking the throng,
33 years I'm fucked up on meth.
33 years everything's gone wrong,
33 years I fin'ly face death.
-"33 Years, part 5" by Top Hat
Vincent Van Gogh's work strikes me in a way that no other art ever has. I am helplessly in love with his paintings, held captive by his brush-strokes.
I should like to read The Bell Jar.
I have found a new love of God in some of the oddest places.
"It's euphoria, it's anger,
It's the winter wind, it's fire."