I feel like I fucked up somewhere - fucked up majorly - fucked up beyond the point of repair. This irreparable damage tugs at my heart, flooding my eyes and I’m consumed with the urge to cry, but why? I’ve lost so many, retained so few and while the few that stuck it through brighten life with mighty light I can’t help but feel the dark niches of sadness of gloom and doom and heavy remorse. I’ve veered off course and yet never have I seen a straighter path before me, with a destination so clear I can taste the fragrance of the air that waits there. Perhaps… perhaps they aren’t meant to remain in my life, only to teach me lessons I’ll carry with me.
If only they knew how I clutch my pillow reminiscing over the dreams I had when everything was new.
I’ve gone through many journals, but out of all the pictures drawn, words written, thoughts described, how many of them had been composed of the truth or lies?
The danger that beckons for a chatterbox is not the words left unsaid, but rather the thoughts left unheard.
The handwriting over the course of many years onto many pages, as well as the quality of pictures, change immensely.
Have I changed as the writer as well, or rather further developed myself?
I began to wonder if I’ve been writing for an eager, curious audience, or rather out of desperation to be heard beyond the words that managed to tumble out from my lips out of instinct.
The line of journals left in my room out into the world’s largest hills of trash up to recycling factories each have something to share with no worth except to myself. They are colorfully used up with the most translatable things to others, but are only understood not even completely by the writer.
The journal I have now is full of awaiting blank pages and yet is small in size with a simple quote on the cover from a long ago discovery. What alerts me is its size, for all the journals before had been much larger.
My thoughts have grown more secretive, dense, and vast. They’re still meant for one single purpose- to be heard.
However, they’ll always be left on the pages, misunderstood as their writer.
I’m guilty as charged.
SISA MISSEL // Courtesy of Baeckerstrasse Galerie - Platform for Young Art
My dad is planning to buy me one (for no apparent reason, dad I feel guilty my semester’s a disaster and you’re giving me a camera??). Since I consider myself illiterate when it comes to DSLRs, I might as well ask some of you guys here.
Pretty please? :3
Game of Thrones House Posters
There are so many words floating around in my head waiting to be said or inked onto paper or even typed, but when I try, the words turn into a big jumble of mess. So where do these words that are dying to be heard go? Do they remain forgotten in the back of your head until you feel like this again and hopefully then they’ll be free?
Have you ever met someone that surprised you? Like, you meet this person, and at first you hardly pay any attention to them. You may not even really be attracted to this person but as you get to know them, you notice yourself falling for them. This person that was once average to you has quickly become the greatest, most beautiful person in the world, and perhaps even the most important. It’s just funny looking back. You never saw something like this coming, it kind of just… happened.