On love, chaos, elegance, and fine Italian combs
I was more keen on over-analyzing the most mundane of things. I stared forever at the bottom of our conversation and replaying how you ended your sentence with hesitation, indifference, over and over again in my head until I made myself sick. Still, I kept my beauty with me, alongside my curiosity to know more than I should. I love love and chaos.
I've been making lists as a way to pacify myself any time I start to feel antsy sitting down at my desk for too long: oatmilk, valerie and her week of wonders, fawn trauma response, the site of reversible destiny, january 20, mescaline hydroplaning apprehension, no one loves anyone like i love you, and so on and so forth.
But more famously, I've been drawn to incoherent paragraphs, much like this one, to draw something, anything out. Even if all my thoughts laid out are repetitious and lack meaning as my brain fumbles to create something of substance in order to decipher how I feel, I love it the most. Keeping my fingertips busy and drowning out my thoughts because I can't find the perfect words to describe them is great and I love Cutive Mono and Courier New on high definition screens more than I should care to mention.
Recently, I went to Malibu. The weekend before, I had failed to kill myself, so I did what anyone would have done in a post-suicidal daze. I tried hard to disappear. Off a corner down PCH at some mini mart connected to a Chevron, I bought a horribly darling postcard (as one should whenever they step even an hour out from where they usually go). And on the back I wrote another letter to myself.
There is profound deepness in being impulsively foolish.
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