WillowHazel26701

It’s cold as hell and the sun is a white hole in the bleached blue of the sky. There are these kids all over the place, little creatures with bright eyes and tangled hair, yelling to each other as they dodge the arc of wildly punted soccer balls. Most of them aren't wearing coats. I feel like I should take mine off and give it to one of them, but they don’t seem to care. The way they’re running around grinning like maniacs you’d think this was the best day of their lives. Grown ups move on the periphery of the excitement, marching along like close-lipped automatons. I keep expecting them to make some kind of some kin

I will never lose my insatiable lust for writing Each time I pick up a pencil or contemplate the barren blankness of a new page I am imbued with something terrifying and glorious and huge Ah, there it is, I think to myself with a little smile, that wild thing living inside of my rib cage, ripping its way out and unfurling in the light. And I sit there at my desk falling in love for the thousandth time with the way words set me free

All I want is to be filled with joy The kind that resonates in every bone ever organ every cell of the body, beating like a tell-tale heart: yes, yes, yes

Her eyes change color. They can shift from silver to sapphire to halcyon to ash within the course of an hour. Sometimes, when she is happy, they are rainwater and dragonflies wings. Radiant.

The phalanges are connected to the metacarpals, the metacarpals are connected to the ulna, the ulna is connected to the humerus… and the heart is connected to pen and paper in a way that defies all logic

You live in a universe apart from everyone else. You're like a young butterfly, iridescent and airborne and headed for the stratosphere.  Your thoughts are not cast away by a mind that has been trained to reject every spark of whimsy and inspiration.  You cherish them, use them to write your blemished but beautiful tales. When the rest of humanity obsesses over external interaction, you sink into the vibrant depths of your own mind.  You prop your elbows on your desk and stare into your imagination with reverent inquisition. You are helplessly attracted to anything bright. At dawn, you sometimes crawl from between your covers and creep to

You once told me that you were never anything close to normal I laughed and looked up at the emerging stars murmuring something about you and how you were fine just as you were something about normal being vastly overrated what I didn’t tell you was that you seemed more normal to me than anyone else I had ever known not normal as in average but normal as in finally a person who understands

Outside my window the charcoal sky stretches over a world pulsing with celebration and saccharine nostalgia I sit on the edge of my bed and listen as the hands of the clock tick down to midnight thinking of all the bright and bitter moments of the past twelve months, exhaling a symphony of carbon dioxide and melancholy as the last minutes of the year bleed into history I have never liked endings there is something about them that makes me feel hollow and old, but this doesn’t seem to be the case for the roiling blur   of people in the streets They are a kaleidoscopic blaze of color and my skull buzzes and burns with vertigo as I watch