Pictures belong to me. Except reblogs, obviously.
(I apologize for my so-not-delicate legs on previous post)
Took a hot bath in the middle of the day. Skin melted to the glass, I become water. I pour and pour till it’s filled. Till I’m drained. But there was a leak. It’s emptying. Leaving me to nothing. Nothing in the tub. But I’m still whole. Somewhere else. Out of the tub.
I constantly feel the need to introduce myself. As if blank pages are shaking my hand and then we word out our names next.
I wish I can describe myself. When I thought I finally know who I am, I can feel myself changing next. I changed a lot, but everyone do too, so I guess no one can really define themselves. ah, that makes me feel better.
Words are confusing. People are scary. Most of the time I’m in my head, but a lot of people do too, so nothing new.
Think you’ll find me use “I feel” a lot. My psychologist said it’s good for me.
I’ve made tumblrs, diaries, blogs, etc, etc, so many times. I feel like I have to renew them all the time. I have a pile of unused notes, meant for diaries, but they stay blank, or are filled with scribbles and a word or two, then that’s it, closed and left for the next one. Empty pages are relieving, somehow. To make new chapters, creating a new body and filling it with different words and images.