worlds upon words

Monday, October 28, 2024

Dad

Your hand, in mine

rough and dry,

comforting

always, warm

starting just

a little finger

switching sides —

left, then right —

traffic decides

my Sentinel,

Protector

shielding me from

vehicular chaos

but safe for

I hold on —

to more fingers

as I lose

my childhood years

—

four and half one

decades on

I have long

learned how:

to traverse

streets, roads

in cities of

all kinds

yet —

four years and seven

decades on

your fingers

comfort still

despite discomfort

of age and gout

they traverse

across two cities

and years apart

to mine, secure

comforting me —

like I was four again

and safe.

Labels: words

Monday, October 07, 2024

unwrite

𝟙

unwrite

𝐌y online-pen has been gripped by silence, because I am not quite sure where and how to write anymore. I feel a sense of ADHD-disorganisation in my mind about where I place my words, because I can't seem to land on a perfected tableau anywhere. I seize up, unable to write as I intend, like an office printer jammed by too many requests and/or unsuitable paper grammage. The words fall nowhere and I resorb them within me, unformed.

This blog, worlds upon words, is only one part of my soul. Twenty years on, I feel that I have become more than the specific persona who authors worlds upon words. Like creating of multiple business units within an organisation, I need to create other spaces to publish the written word, in distinctive forms to accomplish different aims, each space of a distinct brand profile and even author persona.

I also need to renovate this blog, and then incorporate it, alongside new ones, into the brand or persona that fits me now, two decades on. My being a generalist versus a specialist means that I cannot just be one brand or one product; much like an FMCG business. But it is more work than I know how to do or able to get done. Until I can do all of this renovating, reorganising and incorporating that I seem to find so necessary, I feel my words have nowhere at all to land, thus they never get created in their written form anywhere. I need to finish laying down the foundations of my web design to establish this — and I already have the design template in mind — but I don't know how to build a website and the supposedly useful, even paid, website builder services were all unhelpful for my design brief.

So, really, it is the tableau for writing online that I can't seem to find anymore, that has jammed the imprinting of words completely. It is much like how some people can't use the public bathroom because it is not quite right in some detail or another, and they hold it in till they get out (hopefully in time).

𝟚

stage/canvas

𝐃uring my teens, for only a year or two, I was a productive student (which was more anomalous blip than general trend). Like the setting of a theatre stage with lighting, props and suchlike for a performance, I could perform my studious tasks better when I set the stage that was my workspace: I made sure only my desk light was switched on, making every other part of the bedroom darker, thus forcing the eye to only focus on my work in front of me. The audio component was the radio: tuned into the Perfect 10, the pop music station of my adolescence, and a radio station that was 24-hours (a rather new phenomenon back then) which supplied perpetual BGM. Sometimes I did play my cassette tapes, but I didn't have very many of them, and you couldn't play them on a loop long enough to last the hours of studying, uninterrupted.

In the same way, I tried to recreate the visual space that looks like this blog's 'compose' screen, by formatting the digital notebook app I favour (when I opt for digital over analog writing). But the resulting creative endeavours led me towards infrequent, incomplete pieces of writing: inertia, instead of impetus.

The process that should follow painting is that of displaying, showing or exhibiting (or gifting and donating) that finished artwork. If no one aside from its creator is going to lay eyes on the finished work, there is far less impetus for the artist to make a good work of art. By designing a notebook to set the stage equivalent to my blogger 'compose' screen, I was just priming the canvas for painting only, without envisioning the exhibition of the resulting artwork to others than my own self as part of the process. If I was setting a stage, I was endeavouring to perform onstage: but, to no one, thus negating the need for many of the stage components: lighting, for instance. Performing to no audience is thus an oxymoron.

(Not to imply that the eventual audience ought to dictate the way the artist should create.)

The stage was set, but there was no audience. I stretched and primed the canvas as my stage; but there was no tableau.

𝟛

tableau

𝐓he ego, the sense of self of the writer or artist, has to be of a healthy size. The creator should crave some form of transcendence beyond the moment the work is created, beyond being the first person who gets to enjoy the work. Writers want to write and be published because we supposedly want our words to live on beyond us, outliving our own mortality and perhaps forever ('as in, "the internet is forever"). We think eternity deserves us. We want to be read; we want our art to be experienced by an audience.

Even for practical non-artists — managers, policymakers, historians and suchlike, who write plans, papers, and articles to perform an essential function — this holds true, innit?

The concept of –you– the reader of my written words posted here, has always been more abstract than real to me. It is like that imagined future person who will open our time capsule many years or decades later. Even in early blogospheric times that preceded social media — and back then I actually did do my commenting admin — when I was, or became, real-life friends with the people who read me here, I still wrote for a conceptual audience in my mind.

But — and herein lies the component that transforms a stage into a tableau — in the 'compose' screen, there was a 'publish' button. Like the ones we see on our social media apps. My notebook, however on point my design was, was offline and did not include this button. Theoretically there was no conceptual someone in my mind who would read this.

𝟜

perform/publish

𝐖riters want our words to eventually be in a vehicle transporting our ideas — somewhere, to someone. Through exhibiting our artworks in a show or at a gallery, or simply by displaying them on our own walls, the painting we create, the words we write, the art we make —transcend ourselves and the moment it was created. It transports our art from the studio to the gallery; our performance from rehearsal space to the theatre; our words from a screen, or page, to the readers. Our art then transcends beyond artist, time, and space.

Writing without publishing is like merely sitting in a vehicle but not making a journey to a specific destination for a specific purpose; it is like taking a drive for the sake of it. The journey becomes the means and the end in itself. But in general, you acquire a vehicle and use it largely for the practical purposes of getting to and from destinations, and for getting something done. The ability to have a joyride car drive to nowhere is usually just a bonus that comes with car ownership.

Your car, or bicycle, or any mode of personal transport, eventually becomes an extension of you, and visually it becomes a space intentionally curated in your own image, or naturally reflective of your personality. But whatever the case, your vehicle will be visible to other people, out in the world. It isn't like one's bedroom, locked drawer, or digital password-protected files and folders: spaces which might never be seen by eyes other than your own.

Likewise, publishing, even in its weakest forms — through blog posts like this, for instance — is the vehicle used to reach another reader that isn't myself. Writing in journals and digital notes doesn't achieve what publishing does. Not that the personal diary or journal are unimportant, but that they merely achieve other aims: allowing our subconscious to firm up ideas, feelings; organising thoughts and creating plans; recording minutiae that you may need to refer to again at a later time; or writing for the sake of the process in itself — like how that quiet car drive or bike ride on the road to nowhere, no one, for nothing, standalone as experientially curative journeys.

This audience may be but a philosophical concept to me when it comes to my writing on this specific blog, in varying degrees of abstraction over the two decades I've written on this blog, a construct rather than a corporeal form, but it exists as a persona outside myself when I do post my writing online. Thus it becomes impetus for me to create for somebody that isn't me —

— which brings me back to how I have been figuratively resorbing my words lately. The abstract or real person who will figuratively or actually read my online-published words — imagined or real — gives me the impetus to create, create completely, create more, and create better works in the written word, a realised vision to be seen by others.

I have not been using such a stage as this 'compose' screen, this primed canvas, that has a very real button to publish my words. Right now I am back here, because I kept on looking for the right space to lay my words down, and stop them from disappearing into nothing, never-formed, inside my head and heart. For now I disregard the fact that I haven't finished rebuilding my website that will consolidate the new spaces I need to create for other kinds of content I need to create. I will try to ignore the fact that I haven't been able to renovate this website completely, no matter how compulsively perfectionist I tend to be.

𝟝

self

𝐈 mentioned the writer or artist needing an ego to create work that would be seen, experienced, even admired, by others. Too much ego does lead the artist in arrogance or even eventual mediocrity. But without enough esteem for the self as an artist, there is inadequate desire to transcend themselves, the stage, or the page. Therein lies another problem:

I live with perpetual passive suicidal ideation, and I do not care if I die, if I never achieve what I wanted to in this world. For the first eight years of my depression getting medically diagnosed, when I fell into another depressive episode, one that would eventually be lifelong: I was more than passively suicidal. For those eight years I think I tried to kill myself at least once every year. In the following eight years, up to the present, I have no longer been actively suicidal. I still have chronic suicidality, which I think will never go away, but it has been eight years of inactive suicidal ideation; I won't do anything to end my life, but I die from another illness or by accident, so be it. There would be another, I am replaceable. It is like my ego hardly exists, and my body as receptacle is like a lighter, and it is trying to spark aflame, but having mere fumes and tiny drops of lighter fluid left in the barrel. The lighter fluid well that is my sense of self, should be filled. But I really don't think of myself as necessary. This is why I don't have a bucket list of exciting to-dos. If I die today, I don't feel any regret.

I am not so important that my art, words, and service need to exist for others to experience them. Any other person can serve people and help animals, any other person can create art, write literature, and perform music. Go buy another lighter and dispose of this empty one that is me.

I have mere droplets of self-esteem. I don't have enough desire to transcend my art beyond myself. I did once think about becoming a published writer, and I have a rough-draft in-my-head proposal for my magnum opus, but if it doesn't come to fruition, it doesn't feel like a depressing regret inside me, I don't believe it is the world's loss.

I have enough droplets and fumes of lighter-fluid-ego to post a blog post for now. It needs to spark and light aflame to enable me to write as avalon would on this specific blog. The way I write here, the kind of prose and poetry that I create here, requires a process that is hard to replicate in my offline notebooks, digital or analog. Here—the habit has formed, the process crystallised, the brand created; for two decades I have been doing this on worlds upon words. Since I don't actually believe this piece if writing will get read, to me, you the reader are just an abstract construct in my mind; and so I have just enough ego fumes in the barrel to get me to 'compose' and hit the 'publish' button without too much care. I just need this space to lay down my words and stop their unborn selves from being resorbed before existence on a page. The perpetual resorption is an uncomfortable process.

𝟞

vessel

𝐑ecently, the state ofmy perpetually empty self-esteem tank has surfaced in my relationship with my God. Through his words and his Spirit, I have been told emphatically that I am worth something to him, and I am still alive for a specific reason, for work he wants me to accomplish on earth. I was nudged thus: if God says so, that I have worth, who am I to challenge that fact? To not believe this would be irreverent, like throwing sand and soil at monks and priests carrying bowls, asking for alms: an act of irreverence and disrespect. Even if the monks and priests do not share your specific stances on faith and spirituality, you wouldn't show that kind of disrespect as a reasonable, decent human being.

I might be a broken clay jar, but I am a jar that contains treasure that is not my own. God has a purpose for this broken vessel, still. I don't see how I can eventually and sooner than later get back to doing the work He has called me to, because I am literally disabled right now. Yet, I cannot merely press on, like I have been doing in my recovery journey, so that I can get back to my work; my perseverance needs to be tempered with a sense of self-worth.

Which means I have to work on that objective — of coming to believe in myself and to start esteeming myself more — in this, my unending, spiritual and my recovery journey. Maybe it is the missing ingredient I need to gain more progress in my recovery.

𝟟

avarecs: avalon recovers

𝐁ecause right now, I feel I am back in late 2022 once more: I am not eating much, I can't get myself to make two meals a day, essential meals that complete the profile of nutritional needs one needs per day. i have resorted to ordering food because I can't get myself to make my own food. Without calories I get very dizzy and being alone and disabled, that is really dangerous and unsafe for me: if I blackout, I might very likely die without a single person knowing until it is too late. I don't live with a family anymore and I don't have friends who would knock on my door to check on me, like TV and movie characters seem to have, a protrayal or friendship as unrealistic as rom-com love stories.

I just placed a new grocery order of mainly fluids so that I can ingest via liquids: protein, vegetables, fruits, probiotics. I ordered more snacks like nut mixes that help me with fibre, and I bought pears to enjoy daily as a snack I like as well: I am still able to get myself to eat snacks. So, I also procured (an unhealthy snack, by contrast) more of my favourite vegetable chips as easy and tasty calories. I can't use the vegetables in the fridge anymore because I haven't been able to get myself to cook for so long that they have wilted. And I did not buy any more fresh vegetables, because I don't think I can yet bounce back to being able to feed myself dinners properly again; not yet, anyway. I do have bread as one form of solid food, and I find it easier to make a teatime meal of eggs, coffee and sandwiches, than a dinner meal of fried rice and vegetables. Eggs as well as almond butter and almonds in the nut mixes I snack on for fibre, and almond and soy milk, help fulfill the essential need for adequate daily protein: important for both depression and ADHD. It also helps keep my diet alkaline, in order not to trigger gastritis or dyspepsia attacks. This is my better-than-nothing plan, a solution so easily executed because I have been here before.

And this week I am alreadly scheduled for one consult with one of my psychiatrists, and for a psychodynamic therapy session with another one of psychiatrists; it is on my agenda to work on this with both of them. I haven't lost the grit and perseverance to successfully recover towards adequate functionality; I am too absent of success in my recovery journey, apart from infrequent dribs and drabs that are too little, too slow.

So, I have to value myself and believe in my worth, perhaps, to move as successful recovery journeys do: ongoing two-steps-forward one-step-back, instead of of the correct one-step-forward and two-steps-back progress rate that represents successful recovery and rehabilitation. With the inverse trajectory I seem to keep experiencing, never-ready enough yet to go back and join my work-family and relieve my volunteer leaders, I am helplessly and involuntarily watching time pass, and seeing myself unhealed. Trying to value myself, ascribe worth to myself, to add myself as as one of the persons I stay alive for, besides my two parents (I used to have three persons to stay alive for, but one — Sayang, my cat best friend for 14 years — died last year). This is a radical thing for me: like forcing the existence of God onto an atheist and force-feeding them to accept it, or like how stomachs get pumped when a patient overdoses or ingests poison.

Believing that avalon is important and essential and has still yet meaningful art, service; light and love, work that the world needs or deserves – from me! –requires a lot of work on my my part. Theoretically, I get it, but it is too far out for me to fully accept as reality and truth. Not that I won't try to make myself believe, just that I am simply an empty tank right now. I have to bring myself to at least a level equal to how I am able to visualise an abstract concept of a reader in order to complete a piece of writing (a bare minimum of completion, at the very least), and hit 'publish' like I have done so, often. Not caring about all the visual untidiness of this blog, or about the incompletion and disorganisation I feel my web persona or personal brand is in right now. Perhaps only one or three people, actual people, will see this post and read it. Less still would someone come to my aid after reading this. But I still have to visualise a reader to write. Perhaps I need to visualise this worth and value, esteem for myself that I have to believe and below upon myself, in order to recover more quickly, and get back to the helm of my organisation. Instead of frustration at my slow rate of recovery, perhaps I should channel my energy towards visualising self-worth. Whether I will succeed, is unknown.

Labels: state, status, words

Friday, November 18, 2022

Clarity #poetry | with a preface on my process for this poem

Preface

This poem came out oddly, like it woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Things that normally flow from the figurative pen easily, such as imagery and cadence - as if the poem is another entity in control and I am just the messenger - are all completely off today. It makes some sense, seeing as the poem is about needing clarity. Anyway, no matter how many times I edited it, this version below is the best one I could rub out.

I only studied literature in school for two years so I do not know how to formally critique this poem or what rules should I abide by or how this is an example of breaking said rule - a bit like how I learned the guitar. I just try my best not to sound 'contrived' (read: like a poser), and arrange the right words in the way my heart would speak. Using imagery is what helps me understand the world. Writing words and arranging them in the rhythm and flow of a poem helps me when I need to not explain what is on my mind, but to express what is in my heart. That means my creative energy not directed towards making sure the reader fully understands it, but towards giving the reader something to appreciate as an abstract work of art. It can be subject to differential interpretation, or applied to the reader's own unique world, or simply read so that the reader can feel what I feel. Poetry is more visceral, Romantic, and does not place the onus of perfect clarity fully on the writer. It is almost like another art form altogether.

Also, poetry has always been equally for me who writes it, as it is for an appreciative reader, even a hypothetical one. I wrote a poem today with a lack of clarity, because today my heart and mind are muddled. This poem talks about an event that is causing me confusion, but it might lead to clarity in future. Which is why even though this might be a shitty poem, I am still going to publish it here. I wrote it for me.

Love covers all -

ego, transparent

scales fall -

Lights,
everywhere -
as fireworks
assaulting eyes:
neurochemistry
firing, receding,
all dimensions
Lights as
noise - loud, deep;
heart loses clarity -
Blinded -

tabula rasa,

breathe again.

Silence -

between us, broken

by truer words -

finally spoken

of Love, a world

of two, perhaps

of one, no more.

hypothetical

eggshells erode,

in waves - crash

recede, drift -

over aeons,

bare feet, soon

on fine powder,

footsteps, silent

marshmallow

cotton-candy

warm sand

enveloping feet -

each step is Love

Pain erodes

into - memory.

no, not yet -

Waves in a storm
crash upon me
crash me -
onto rocks
fog, darkness -
making air -
opaque
- suffocating
Lighthouse -
out of grasp
away from
Safety, Love
- Life itself
I am torn
to ribbons,
snuffed out
from a distance.

a clean slate:

not - to vacate

the past without

retrospect,

- to act as

waves, tides,

illumination -

through

a truer Love

an absence of ego

words - both ways

- in times of calm -

breathe again.

Labels: words

Wednesday, April 01, 2020

Familiarity breeds contempt #poetry #avalonwrites

Written during a contentious time both at home and in the world, or, Love in a Time of Corona

familiarity breeds contempt
the breed of your contempt is stifling
in the humidity spite breeds
multiplying by factors to the powers of
more than imaginable
imagination being my private domain
beyond familiarity
into solitary quiet and stillness
an only safe space with negative pressure
solitary clean room in this family
free of microbes of cruelty
which will eventually envelop me
outside my mind
I cannot breathe in this
contemptuous space that breeds
hatred in words and deeds
which I forgive relentlessly
beyond reason to the naked eye
yet -- you are family
association that tethers us together
a cord of three strands
organic strands
moldy from humidity
from wear and tears
necrotic words
decomposing my worn heart
shards of which attack
my chest
I cannot breathe in
this family.

Labels: words

Monday, March 02, 2020

Violence it can be silent #poetry #avalonwrites

It mayn't be battery or
assault with fist or weapon
targeted at your object
of deafening rage;
Mayn't be explosives
- shrapnel, scattershot
brick, mortar - all directions
tinnitus ringing -

These we can name
as breeds of Violence
clearly, as through aeons

of wars waged,

and gender inequity -

Boys, they will be.

But your Violence differs -
uneasily spotted and named
as if it were a new species -

a mutated butchered
form ruinous devolving
- also when written in words:

Imprecise, crude, inelegant
not a surgical strike, defined
damage; aftermath resembling
- a can of sauce
slowly struck open with a rock,
or a hardcover book
shredded, by hammer
or other blunt tools misused.

So your Violence differs -
perhaps devolved, muted,
by forms of adapted civility -

violence against The Other

- evidence of its lack
all the more necessary in
this millennium's rampant
extrasocial hyperscrutiny
making you more aware,
or, outwardly seem so
to conform, in civil society.

Few, or nought, shall see you as -
Violent, for your type of Violence
is quieter than the norm,

devolved from the usual
- as I've already described -
I am trapped as your victim,
of your crude cruel words
wielded as battery weapons
imploding me messily
my heart my written words
my sense of self
- if any left

Labels: words

Monday, February 24, 2020

Sadness as it is understood | #poetry #avalonwrites

I wonder if - for you, too?
Sadness, as it is understood
is it like the way it feels for me
- as a physical pain, palpable?

In an incomplete sculpture
Sadness, when it occurs:
an armature suddenly splintering,
breaking, beneath wet plaster

or, even - papier mache,
slopped over a plastic bottle;
before the glue, the mush, is dry
the bottle crumples -

a vacuum, as in a gas chamber
of oxygen-decreasing-over-time
behind glass doors in silent screams
of life escaping as does the air

If Sadness is, for you as well,
these metaphors I use - here and
more - to spell in words some measure
of that palpable gnawing pain,

real, as a ghost with flesh, alive,
yet invisible to most, as we see,
then my friend my pain
is yours to read here, and breathe

Labels: words

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

primal fear

primal fear
ungrounding me;
I tread en pointe
in minefields —
eggshells of your
silence, and anger

primal fear
deafening me
I hear my heart
galloping — thud —
like rapid fire
in my chest, and ears

primal fear
scaring me;
I revert to me
from darkened years
rejected by words,
and absence, and neglect

primal fear
hijacks me
I freeze, awaiting —
my love — the threat,
approaching danger
I die, and die again

Labels: words

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

Yet, yes I still love you

I am used to emotional abuse:
A change from that is refreshing!
But alas that I know -
It cannot remain so
Yet I will always forgive you
For being cold.

I am used to it:
Needing to hide my tears
My pain invalidated
Seeing your disapproval
Not getting help when I need it.
Yet, yes I still love you.

Labels: words

Saturday, October 31, 2015

[POEM] do me

coerce me, to love life
in spite of shit-hail -
never can be shovelled
clean for a walkway.

inspire me, to love words,
again - I have lost it.
no life-blood to devour
the art of words.

fuck me, to make me high
that I may misplace all -
pain, feelings like death.
even if for a moment.

cut me, open my veins
that I may bleed and see -
I am Human, fallible
To ail is Human, indeed.

comfort me, I am alone
confidantes - infrequent
or unsuitable, or need
nothing that I can barter.

Labels: words

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Darkness Before Dawn

Back to scribbling with a pen, or in this case, stylus.

Labels: words

Thursday, August 27, 2015

I crave, with my everything

Labels: words

Saturday, August 22, 2015

A Mistake In Love

Warm may be your heart, at times,
But now it be ice-cold
To me; in words.
You broke me time and again
Cut through to the vein
I bleed tears -
And descend.

Into a cavalier heaven
Of orgasmic pleasure
That goes deep in me
Is never - Ice-cold
Will not - Break me
And I bleed - only -
Desire.

To tolerate a lack
Of the selfsame thing
You offered in loads before,
To tolerate - til when?
When, a dream in common,
Fulfilled? Alas -
You ratified, saying no more.

So - no plan in sight
To know how, where, when
While I face your coldness
As I bleed in broken pain
Will peace return? - Or
Maybe it was never ours,
Because - a mistake in love.

Labels: words

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

You are a secret

I write because you enter me when I am between sleep and consciousness. Yet I cannot acknowledge your arrival, for you do not know the secret.

Labels: words

Friday, August 29, 2014

Intensely

Reigning madness, like-
Falling abyssmally
Off the edge of the map
Perceived such as:
Eternal despair.

It thrusted a shard,

Into my being

Displacing where life does

flow like blood-

through an artery.

I will bleed life out,

keeled over-

Because of pain thus intense.

Stab me for real,

It won't differ.

Blood through my nose,

I go into shock,

and will no longer respond,

as I curl into a

foetal state.

Then, no more intense pain-

for I give in to it.

Take me, break me, eradicate-

Whole, swiftly. for-

My life- it hurts-

Intensely.

Labels: words

Thursday, February 20, 2014

Unquiet stillness

Lying in a mess
That cannot be cleaned,
Really, for -
Some travails reside
Only variably, in
Pain and suffering.

I am still, I am,
Knowing He fights
On my behalf - amen
But this stillness
Is veiling what flounders
Inside, sonically.

Labels: words

Monday, November 25, 2013

Untitled

Labels: words

Friday, November 22, 2013

Fatigue

Labels: words

Sunday, June 09, 2013

Humanity My Respite

A quaint evening -
I see it murky
Eyes veiled by gauze
Of varying
Transclucencies
Shards, powder
Of glass against me;
I hardly feel it
No matter! For -
Love. For you,
Humanity itself
Others crave coffee
And conversations
I crave to comfort,
Bear your pain.
You ain't heavy.

Labels: words

Sunday, February 10, 2013

for Romanticism, humanity

Crank me up
but hear nothing.

-

Displaced
as a cassette tape were
to be in a digital world

Do I sound like silence?
Insofar as the universe is.

-

Capture me
on silver, black and white
Create permanence
out of transience.

But that is all.

-

We explain, solve
and today, more, opine
but forget to
feel --
her blood through your veins
her heart in your ribcage.

(Regression is far worse
than transgression.)

In becoming feminist
we became masculine.

Make art, but more Romantic
Display the grotesque
Intersect on countenance
Animate pain bloodily
So that we feel again
Beyond photos, news
and opinions.

Her pain must be felt.
Crank the people up
Hear the injustice
And see the world
As it is.

Alleviate her pain
so that you feel it too.
For there is no happiness
But the absence of sorrow.

Labels: words

Sunday, October 28, 2012

feeling like a crushed piece of newsprint

                                 Agony.
              I feel the crushing to my bones,
from a sadness that seems to transcend the mind
              and onto the body.

                                My heart
              feels like it has been on a treadmill ECG test
since beginning of time.
              "Tired like fuck."

Labels: state, words

worlds upon words

It's going to be an exposition of my little sub-worlds, all in language that I try to put together. This blog was born way back in 2003, and I post more on social media now. I suffer from clinical depression, fibromyalgia, and a walking disability from surviving a suicide attempt. I have a passion for animals, writing, art, music and humanitarian work.

this blog is

about this song

about my calling

taking avalon apart

like my transitory Mecca

many things

clinical depression

links to me

my twitter

[wip]

link
text

Dad