Desire (5.13.17)

There is a place where I go,
When the load is too much to handle.
A place to rest and let the problems tumble,
Off my back.
Where I know they'll land safe.

In this place of holographic hue,
Prismatic sprays across the rocks.
Endless stars giggle and flicker above me.
Within this grove of weeping willows
I whisper
All the things that I desire.

The feel of skin against mine,
Sweet chocolate and fresh sunshine.
This place to take reprieve from the storm.

While I am alone here,
I am never lonely.
You see, sometimes, if I'm very quite
I can hear The Universe whisper back to me.
Through the ever falling water off the boulders
That contain my secret grove.

It says in a quite, nearly not there, voice.
"I have given you that which you desire."
And I remember the freckles in your eyes
The way they shine at me after a heavy rain.

The Universe has granted me my peace in you.

Walk With the Sun, Love With the Moon. (11.16.16)

She is a wildflower,
Sprouting where nothing dares to grow.
The sun light flits over her garden,
That grows on the side of highway 66.

Her eyes shimmer like gold dust in a California river,
Given the chance she'd rather be panning for minerals
Then pining over missed chances.

Because to her there is nothing quite like the air,
Mixed with starlit woods.
Something about the dead of night
Makes her feel alive.

Consort of the Witch (7.16.16)

He leaves kisses like embers
On paper pale skin.

He worships this universe,
And it caresses away his pain.

Under the silver moon there is clarity.
In his body, in his mind.

The tempest heart is stilled.

The liminal space between their
Intertwined fingers

Is where adoration
And Affliction meet.

Seek Medical Attention.

I have a habit.
A very sever habit of staying up for days at a time, and allowing exhaustion to crash over me like a wave. I will stay up for 20 hours and sleep for 2, then repeat until the weekend. Then, and only then, will I crash for 16-24 hours.
I never figured out why I did this, but it's been happening since I was a very little girl. When I was six, I would lay in bed until midnight, then I would creep into my grandpa's lap and watch some R rated movie. I would watch stories of women seeking revenge. I would watch stories of warlords reigning over their territory.
As I got older, the habit grew. With the dawn of the Internet, I used my sleepless nights to learn. Mostly words, sometimes different ideas. I attempted to teach myself other languages and got pretty far in it too. I would watch different stories. Ones of love and heroic sacrifice.
Now I am older still. I sleep less frequently than I did before, I chalk it up to safety. I never feel safe enough to sleep. I don't live in an environment where I feel it's okay to shut down, so I don't until I push myself to the shore of exhaustion.
I want to sleep. Go to bed at eleven, wake up at seven and repeat the process.
But then I feel like I would miss the night and all its charms. The way silence sounds at 3AM. The way hysterical laughter feels after 24+ hours without sleep. I know it isn't good to force yourself into mini comas, but what else could I possibly do.
-H

The Chase.

Vincent Van Gogh told me to go out and taste the stars. To paint them with my wide eyed brush. That same brush that was tinted rose with the words of Emerson and Aristotle. Those 'great' poets told me to live my adventure, and to hold close my dreams. Scientists have spouted for years that I am special. That I am made from the building blocks of universes and I am innumerable.
All throughout my childhood, Doctor Seuss wrote for me a path of confounded prose. Telling me stories of all the places I could go and I believed every word. I remember the first time I picked up a Harry Potter novel and I heard Dumbledore tell me about his mismatched wool socks. I recall the sense of whimsy the words ignited in my chest.
I remember picking up Shakespeare's 'A MidSummer's Night's Dream' and having that whimsy run wild. I was entranced by the pitter patter of Iambic pentameter. I recall being engrossed by Edgar Allen Poe's trokey, as he talked about ravens rapping on his door. All these voices calling to me from the past, inspiring my mind to rebel against my present.
I remember finding out about Van Gogh's depression, Poe's too. I learned about Shakespeare being a drunkard, and my dearest Doctor fighting nazis. The way those realizations dawned upon me, the weight of their words only increased. Suddenly the raven was no longer a mischievous friend, but a sullen companion. No longer did Puck seem to be the lovable scamp, but more the righteous hand of fate.
The beauty of 'Starry Night' became insurmountable.
There is a sense of wonder that never left me. Inspired by the greats of old. They whisper to me while I try to sleep. They tell me their tales and ask me mine.
"Who are you?" They say, and "What are your sorrows?"
I miss the days when I responded freely
"I wish I had more money." "I wish that I was in love."
But now things have changed. I am no longer chasing sorrows, because despite what the greats told me, I chose to chase a more finicky beast. I chose to follow hope. The light that glows in the flowers at dawn. The way the ocean sounds at midnight. I chose to follow my heart and chase my dreams like wisps off a wishing weed. I don't know where this road leads me, because more often than not it's not a road, but I know I will land one day. Wherever I land those greats will follow.
Because people like us can't help but to chase a story.
-H.

A Lot of Shitty Things Happen at One in the Morning.

Hello friends and we are back again with another riveting insight into the brain hole that is Me!
(Little forewarning, I've currently take 80mg of melatonin, and am likely to get hella sleepy at any given point in time.)
This post is all about why you should avoid 1AM to 4AM like the plague.

Reason number one:

• Loneliness is a powerful demon.
• This isn't just a demon that eats you from the inside out, it's the kind that kills your imagination and creativity. Instead of taking the time to think of cool stuff, like a Princess commanding a dinosaur army, you're stuck thinking really sad stuff and life sucks.

Reason two:

• Your penmanship will fucking suck.

Reason three:

• All that bundled up sadness can do some serious damage in the long run.
• Moodiness and emotion, despite what the dead drunks say, are not the muses you want. 
• Sadness is a vixen, she wants to use you for all you have and then leave you to rot like Poe.
• Anger is a temptation, a seducer if you will. He'll hold your hand and pull you along while whispering sweet nothings of revenge to you. The same he did with Mary Shelly. 

Reason four: 

• Whoever said life imitates art is a dirty liar.
• art imitates life, so make your art beautiful. Surround yourself with good vibes and wonderful people. Make your art mean something different than all those who've come to pass. Live your life believing in the good.
• And please for the love of all that is holy. Avoid the danger zone while thinking.

I have more things to say and pictures to add. But I think I'll continue that on another day.

Have a beautiful evening,
H.