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My mother told me there would be days like this.

My mother told me there would be days like this.  


Days when, no matter how sure of yourself you are or have been, the doubt creeps up on you.  This doubt, this dark force, causes you to feel inadequate in the most unsettling ways.  You wonder if you have come this far just to liquify and evaporate, crashing in your entirety on the shore under your feet.  The ebb and flow of the waves will consume you out to sea.  Significant and insignificant all at once.  A piece of a whole.  You wish, you wonder. 


You may feel completely alone.  Maybe you have always felt completely alone.  You may think that you are not worth it.  You may believe that you will never find what you are looking for.  


I promise you that you will find it, but more often than not, this takes time.  And it is the waiting that is heartbreaking, because you may feel that everyone has forgotten about you in the meantime. 


And then you might remember that the dark days are what you make of them, and there is always light at the end of the tunnel.  Sometimes this light appears in places or in faces where you would least expect it. 


To those who are feeling lost today (and this is every bit for me as it is for you)…  Hang in there, remember to remember that this world is for you.  You are very Lucky.  Even if you don’t see it right now.  Even on your darkest days.  


With my heart, 



(via & bleedingfragments

Get out of my head

(you know who you are). 

So you want to be a writer

if it doesn't come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,

don't do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your

heart and your mind and your mouth

and your gut,

don't do it.

if you have to sit for hours

staring at your computer screen

or hunched over your


searching for words,

don't do it.

if you're doing it for money or


don't do it.

if you're doing it because you want

women in your bed,

don't do it.

if you have to sit there and

rewrite it again and again,

don't do it.

if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,

don't do it.

if you're trying to write like somebody


forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of


then wait patiently.

if it never does roar out of you,

do something else.


if you first have to read it to your wife

or your girlfriend or your boyfriend

or your parents or to anybody at all,

you're not ready.


don't be like so many writers,

don't be like so many thousands of

people who call themselves writers,

don't be dull and boring and

pretentious, don't be consumed with self-


the libraries of the world have

yawned themselves to


over your kind.

don't add to that.

don't do it.

unless it comes out of

your soul like a rocket,

unless being still would

drive you to madness or

suicide or murder,

don't do it.

unless the sun inside you is

burning your gut,

don't do it.


when it is truly time,

and if you have been chosen,

it will do it by

itself and it will keep on doing it

until you die or it dies in you.


there is no other way.


and there never was.



- Charles Bukowski

November 2, 2013 . 1:05 AM . Saturday

You know that you're a writer when you're dressed up in your finest Witch garb at the Misfits show in Boston on Halloween Night and all you can think about is going home to write.  Yes, it's true.  

I'm not sure who will be reading this now, and it is not what matters to me.  If you are one who wishes to find my thoughts, you will.  I'm not searching for the approval of anyone else.  It's nothing personal, it's just simply how I feel.  

This is a new beginning.  This private blog to ponder and reflect is my sanctuary; my relief from the remainder of the world.  On behalf of my previous blog, it became evident with time that I was craving a much more secret place to be alone with my thoughts.  Although I am grateful to have touched many souls within the scope of my words and pictures, the correspondance eventually became overwhelming.  Because so many others felt as if they intimately knew me, I couldn't escape the world I had created.  As it was so eloquently described to me by a friend, 'when too many people know about you, it makes your secret place not nearly as sacred.'  That was precisely what had occurred, I was frequently being disturbed in what was intended to be a space and time for myself.  I didn't realize how much it was affecting me until well after the fact.  This combined with traumatic, love-related devastation was enough to all but completely drive me over the edge.  And it bothered me to the melting point until I alleviated the issue.  I concluded that my time could be put to a more fulfilling purpose.  And there was no way around it, either.  It had to be done.  Which brings me to this: 

These words are for me and only me. 

I recently had my heart broken.  It is a complicated issue with many fragmented ends.  I've observed that what ultimately leads us to heartbreak is not one but many things that are closely intertwined or become that way, even to the best of our ability to avoid such a collision.  Love is a tricky thing.  Love is not simple, and at the same time it is the most simple.  What love means to one is not the same as what love means to another.  Love is different for everyone.  It cannot be defined.  There are many ways to love.  There is no one right way.  Love is a growing journey.  Love takes sacrifice, patience, understanding.  Love is a lot of hard work, but it is always worth it in the end.  And love never ends. 

I must keep these thoughts in mind, remember them, dwell on them.  I've gone through a spell of depression in the last few weeks, nourishment has been the last thing on my mind.  As I lay naked in bed under the covers, running my hands over my bones, I wonder how it is exactly that I arrived here and how serious the consequences of my existence will be from this moment onward.  

There are red lipstick stains on the pillowcase.  My cheeks are tear-stained.  I can count all my bones.  Where has my spider gone?  I look to the corner of my room above my bed, she's not there.  I'll excuse her absence.  I'm not really here, either.  

Maybe I'll find traces of her where I left the pieces of myself.  

Say your prayers, banana girl.  

Close your eyes.  Be kind to yourself.  Wait and see. 

This isn't Charlotte.

This is a new friend that I have made as of recent.  

I’m sad to say that Charlotte has vanished, all that’s left of her are the sparse cobwebs that were once the home that she lovingly spun above my bed.  The spider that once watched over us as we slept is gone, which pains me all the more to realize that you’re not here to hold me anymore and neither is she.  I don’t know where she went…  but it appears that she left shortly after you did.  


It was a couple days later that I discovered her missing.  I had something to tell her, I was happy to see her, all I wanted was to just look at her sleeping in the web and blow wishes at her.  The sight of this little life dangling above me comforted me in the simplest and most innocent way.  However, when I stood on my bed to touch the ceiling and look for her, she wasn’t there.  Her absence broke my heart.  I’m afraid also that if I look for her, I might find traces of you.  


There are other things that I wanted to tell you, too.  I wanted to tell you all the funny and disturbing and magical things that the ghosts whisper in my ear.  They have a lot to say.  (Our favorite holiday is coming up, you know!)  You seemed to be the only one who enjoyed hearing their secrets, it’s not the same with everybody else.  Most people are not always so understanding, however intrigued they may seem.  You know this well, and it goes without saying that the same sentiment holds true with most things.  


I am very much enjoying The Witches.  You were right, it is exactly like a story of my life.  I laughed when Roald Dahl said in the very beginning that “a REAL WITCH is easily the most dangerous of all the living creatures on earth.  What makes her doubly dangerous is the fact that she doesn’t look dangerous.  They all look like nice ladies.  For all you know, a witch may be living next door to you right now.  Or she might be the woman with the bright eyes who sat opposite you on the bus this morning.  She might be the lady with the dazzling smile who offered you a sweet from a white paper bag in the street before lunch.  She might even- and this will make you jump- she might even be your lovely schoolteacher who is reading these words to you at this very moment.  Look carefully at that teacher.  Perhaps she is smiling at the absurdity of such a suggestion.  Don’t let that put you off.  It could be part of her cleverness.”  


OF COURSE all of that is true!  I couldn’t believe the accuracy of such a description!  The only people who are able to discern a real witch are other real witches, of course.  Real witches hide in plain sight.  It is part of our cleverness.  


Hospice training is going as grandly as possible.  It seems as though my classmates get a kick out of me or are at the very least allured by me and my responses to the afterlife.  I know that we are entitled to our own beliefs (and it is a right to hold such beliefs sacred), however those who choose not to believe in anything frequently bemuse me with their silly questions.  Why they are all so afraid of death I will never understand.  I suppose they will be in for a surprise when they arrive themselves. 


I also don’t know what to do about this blog.  I’m aware that we both began this venture separately and years ago, well before we knew one another.  The tough part is that it reminds me of you no matter how hard I try.  It’s difficult spending too much time here, I’ve been avoiding it whenever possible.  The post that I made about the possibility of deleting it or at the very least abandoning it sparked an enormous retort.  Most are from followers who don’t typically comment or communicate with me, and I found that surprising.  It seems as though there exist those whom I have touched, my story and words have helped them, and my thoughts continue to help them.  I was feeling torn because I thought, “Well, I began using this blog for modeling and writing occasionally, however if the majority of people are just here for my boobs, I don’t want to do this any longer.”  That doesn’t seem to be the case.  Sure, I still believe that spending too much of your life on the internet may be a waste of time, and there are bigger, grander, more powerful causes to fully dedicate your time to…  However, I can’t feign those few real, close connections that I have made.  And isn’t that why I am here, to help people, to inspire them?  Isn’t this doing precisely that? 


Some things to ponder, at the very least.


I still haven’t read that letter you wrote me.  It is still hiding amongst F. Scott Fitzgerald’s words, right where you stopped reading.  I can’t look, I don’t want to.  I’m saving it for another time.  Maybe when I’m feeling strong enough to read, I will.  Perhaps I never will.  Perhaps I am hoping for something miraculous to happen.  I cling to this hope.  I don’t know what else to do.  Sometimes hope is all we can do.  Sometimes hope is enough.  


All this pain is for a purpose.  I know that we are both sad right now.  It’s going to take me a while to get over you…  I am reluctant to do so, and I wonder if it is even possible that I will be able to at all.  I am trying to get better, and I know that better will take time.  A lot of time.  I don’t expect this to be an easy journey alone, but I know that I will eventually arrive where I am supposed to be.  I know that I will find what I am looking for.  What’s more, I know that you will, too.  


And if we can’t surrender completely to happiness, I sincerely hope that we will find serendipitous traces of it scattered about our days apart, where we least expect it. 

(via & bleedingfragments)

I could hear my heart beating,

I could hear everyone's heart.
I could hear the human noise we sat there making.
Not one of us moving,
not even when the room went dark.

- Raymond Carver

"It doesn't matter who you are or what you look like, so long as somebody loves you."

This is the children's story that he often reminisced as reminding him so much of her.  Today she picked up a copy with a heavy but hopeful heart.  With any luck, she hopes to find traces of him within its pages.

(via bleedingfragments)

I don't know about this.

This is silly and I don't want to be a grownup anymore.  

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