deathofwillow - Tumblr blog

[deathofwillow]

Everytime I even stand up my dog gets excited asf. He understands that I'm a dude who can make shit happen at any given moment.

[deathofwillow]

25/9/2022

I realised recently that it is now autumn. Despite this, what remains of the natural world around me is still as it always was, a desaturated and sun-cooked jade green. No leaves litter the ground, there is no fresh aroma in the air. I'm still the same me.

I feel that purple fizz again, that indescribable motion of buzzing and ethereal mist that shrouds my mind. Stronger yet stronger, it swirls and coagulates around my brain matter like moss, weighing it down and making my head feel all the more burdenous to carry atop my weakening shoulders.

Inaction is the word which holds an authoritative grip on my life as of late. All around me I see human beings dance around like whisps of wind, whereas I remain planted. A sarcophagus. I'm an immovable object with no force even attempting to lift me. I am a purposeless, motionless, pointless visage of a human, without a soul that dares deign to help me; yet I feel so many expect I help them.

I feel like a wounded, bleating animal desperately signaling for someone to take heed. I seek love in a maze of cold concrete walls. All I want is for somebody to touch me, to know another being out there is designating what space they have in their melting mind to me and my problems.

Woefully, none of this is new. Solitary, inactive, decomposing. Those are the words that have and always will encapsulate me. A soul so vast with a prison of a body preventing it from ever breaking free. A desecrated loner who didn't even know that it was now autumn.

There's a signal out there, one I can shine so bright that it would be impossible for even the most apathetic to ignore. Only one question remains - am I too much of a coward to shine it?

[deathofwillow]

Sometimes, you feel as if your two eyes were not born equal. Revealed to you under darkness, or as you stare blankly into the blinking lights of a screen before you, there is a certain cloudedness, painting your sight in a subtle blur. The left eye.

You have an eye and three quarters. It affords you a constant source of irritation - you can never quite perceive something as it is, simply and literally. There is always something, the blur of that faulty lense that barracades from you a pure perception of what you gaze upon. Frankly, it pisses you off.

It pisses you off because it reflects yourself. In an example of twisted irony, this three quarters of an eye grants you an ever-clearer view into your own character. To stare at something, and to see it, but to not quite see it in its purest form. Double-meanings, twisted words, jokes mangled and deformed into insults. If you could look upon the world with impartiality, unburdened by the immaturity and sickness of your own emotions, you could be happy. You could relax. You could watch your friends expand their horizons without worry of being left behind. But you can't, because you have an eye and three quarters.

[deathofwillow]

You lie down in your bed, encasing yourself in dubiously textured sheets as if closing the lid to your own coffin. It is late at night. Your only company is the truly manic within society, the mal-adjusted, the meth-heads, the whores.

It is during these times, where werewolves roam the streets and vampires peer through the looking glass into your soul, that you are given pause. You hold your phone, encased in the sullied flesh of your haggard hands, and wonder if you belong out there.

What does Willow bring to society, you wonder. She is an idiot, a cunt, a fuckwad. She tries to get better, but the idiocy, cuntishness and fuckwaddedness all come crawling back like some undead insect. Mildew and cracked stucco comprise the interior of your room, like some twisted puzzle cube, bizarre patterns frolicking among each of its four sides. Exaggeration is a fun exercise in hope, you think, as you stare blankly at the discarded garbage and unarranged ornaments that litter your living space.

Are you funny? You make your friends laugh, sometimes. Other times, you don't. Are you attractive? You have sex, sometimes. Most of the time, you don't. Are you skilled? Never.

You feel as if you lost the game of life, at such a tender and young age. You're reclusive, like some cottage witch in an uncharted swamp, and your mouth is lined with serrated edges, waiting to cut the next person who dares engage with you. Inside your mind is an explosion of colour and shape, beautiful brush-strokes of a painting waiting to explode unto the real world. But you will never achieve this, you feel. It's trapped within a fleshy, unkempt prison.

Love, romance. You feel it everywhere, it permeates your very soul - you even feel as if you may be starting to love once again. But this tenderness is betrayed, utterly destroyed by your disgusting, repugnant jealousy. You will never move on, you are chained in place, forever in bondage. You will never pay the ransom.

Is all of this true? You can't say. Even if you were to doubt it, you would not believe it - it has to be from another, and even then, assurance begins to fade rapidly, just as the moon disappears to make way for the blinding sun.

This is a cry, from your soul. You will transform, you must. What is stuck in your past must not be wrought back from the depths. Destitution, lawlessness, anomie, it must go away. Open the coffin lid, breach into the moonlight, dance as you bask in its ecliptic glow, and learn to be the version of you that exists in your mind, crafted in stunning slashes of deep black and stark white. It is time to create.

[deathofwillow]

it’s almost Pride Month which is the season for my favorite kind of discourse: nerds on the internet playing Pride Police with regard to how much skin the homosexuals are allowed to show, a non-issue that nobody at the actual events cares about, but we for some reason decide to discuss every year