HBD Taylor Swift

 

So,I'm a Swiftie for life.

But that does not mean I don't also like Lana Del Ray.
  Here's a song of hers that's beautiful.

It's been one of those hazy weather days where you can't see anything clearly and your mind feels foggy.Great,I've always sucked at small talk.So,um..yeah,it's really weird how I have all this latent energy inside me in the form of repressed feelings waiting to explode,like a rain cloud too full of vapour or an ice cube that's absorbed too much heat and they need to let go,to evaporate,to melt.Just that,in my case,there is no outlet...no melting point.There's no state of being.There's only sublimation that makes it seem sweet to implode instead of express.

Everyone asks me why I'm so quiet and I shrug and think to myself,maybe I don't want to be.Truth is,I'm lost and I don't have words I can find that can justify this void.

It's weird how sometimes I feel more at home in other people's houses.I make my mind a makeshift home of sorts because it's hard for me to find a home where I belong in the physical sense of the word.
It's like other people's parents know more about me than mine do.They get me better.They take me out for dinner,they offer me ketchup in bowls,they read my blog,they tell me I write well and they hug me.How much I wish these people I refer to were what my parents would be a little like.
It's not how it's supposed to be,I guess,but, oh well.

I get the whole idea of appreciating what you've got but those who preach this do not live with my parents. I get that it's always a two way transaction.
But it isn't a transaction,see? See what they've made of me.
When I was younger,it din't matter so much.I never let it get to me bad enough...the older I get,however,the little things get to me more.I've tried showing my parents that I love them and I care,I've tried asking them,outright but none of it seems to work out well.It's not that we don't love each other,it's just tough love.And it hurts.
I understand that people have their own ways of expressing affection,and showing that they care,but sometimes,just sometimes it hurts not to have physical evidence of it.

I'm not asking for too much,all I ask for is a "How was your day,darling?" or a "Are you alright?"
,a hug to know I'm safe,or to feel welcome,or a hug goodbye,a kiss on my forehead,maybe even a simple "goodnight" or a "goodbye",a homemade cake or a handwritten letter on my birthday.Any form of a gift any day.A simple "thank you for doing this".
Maybe I am.

It's all these little things,you know,that make me feel loved.
I've tried and I've failed and I can't stop wanting to feel a sense of belonging,for, everywhere I go,I feel lost.A feeling that I'll never belong anywhere completely.
It hurts to know that those who are supposed to love you the most find it hardly worthy to let you know,because they're too busy to see you need it.If those who made me can't find that kind of unconditional love for me,how would someone else, possibly?

Everyone asks me why I'm so quiet,well,it's because if I wouldn't be my malignant heart would make me someone I'm afraid to be.

Sad kinda happy

                                                            

Looking at old photographs on the bathroom floor,the winter biting my ankle,cold to my bone.
The photographs form inverted images on my eyes that whirl to a psychedelic effect and the light falling on my eyes is not the same anymore.
It's us walking down a street,holding hands,fairy lights strung on the sides long after festivities have died..it's dark and pretty.So surreal,so empty.We sat in a cozy cafe where service was slow and time was never tired of being timeless,we din't want to go home that night..it was frozen warmth,a guarantee growing up never assured us of.
The air has a nip of November now,as we weave through potted plants on the pavement..winter is sunsets before you anticipate them,winter is time growing old,winter is letting go of the warmth of summer's palm.Maybe that's why I was never too keen about this season in the first place.Only the memory of summer gets me moving.
We blew bubbles out the sides of the auto,the wind blew them back at out faces.Teenage troubles din't matter on days like this,they din't even exist.It din't matter how screwed up it was to see a a beggar tapping on a Rolls Royce window in front of me..that same afternoon.
Sort of like when you sit on a terrace tank and look down on a world of miniatures and you could sit there all day watching clouds and airplanes and advertisement hoardings in the distance,and zone out because tomorrow wouldn't exist if you sat there long enough.
The gasoline rainbow sheen of the bubble popping on my face takes me to yet another place,
A baby pink bath tub,my four year old feet wouldn't reach the end and I wish I wouldn't be so small,
Now I can only sit in it with my feet huddled up beneath my chin,
it's sort of terrible how children are unaware that growing up doesn't always entail certainty,
but only more doubt.