"maybe you are just not an artist", he says. 

it’s been five years since, and i still have nothing to say. i can put things together, call it art, pretend my creation is a valuable specimen birthed from a deep well of meaning, truth, beauty and bullshit. 

there is nothing left to say these days, only battles to fight and days to cross out of the calendar.

the purest, most all-encompassing kind of innocence can only be seen in the eyes of animals. they are the only beings in this world that are left untouched by malice, doubt, pride and shame. unshackled by worldly pleasures, they tread this earth with truth as their compass, and their perfect devotion to humans as their pitfall. 

i am terrified of both distance and nearness to the only living, beating heart i ever want to call mine. 

each letter of every word you say falls on me like snow, melting, and dripping like caramel on my skin. with all hope, longing, and faith, i pick them up and painstakingly rearrange them, over and over again. but somehow, they never quite fall into the right places like they used to. 

sleep wraps around her body, each time creating a brittle layer, an outside shell that, try as she might, will never hold up, and will always chip and crack under the weight of each morning.

darkness is the weight that your shadow cannot carry. 

i have a new friend. he likes to be called ‘silence’. he sits at the edge
of my bed, every night. he tucks me in under my sheets, kisses me goodnight, and watches me sleep. 

but i’m not really asleep, and he isn’t really there. 

this city is too small to hold the weight i feel. i walk the streets, and each step creates a stitch in my path. i am going around in circles, turning corners, crossing (and uncrossing) bridges. i do this until there is no way to decipher my way back home, or your way back to me. 

Canvas  by  andbamnan