If you trust in your strangeness, your peculiar loveliness, and otherworldly magnetism when you are young, everything will come a lot quicker and you will save yourself suffering.
Light more candles and switch off lights. Open your senses as much as possible, you can do this with flowers or chocolate or sunsets, rubbing coconut oil over your skin, or painting your eyelids in blue glitter. Anything that makes your heart tickle and expand two or three inches further is good.
Walk and don’t drive, you’ll get more miracles that way. Remember the earth is your mother.
Say yes to all adventures that don’t make you sick.
Tend to plants, they build self esteem and make you prettier.
Dancing is an antidepressant. Yoga and meditation are antidepressants. Laughter is an antidepressant, and if you feel like you can’t, laugh anyway, until your fake laughter becomes funny.
Green things that grow from the earth are antidepressants, try to eat those every day. If you are heart broken surround yourself in green and pink.
TV and phones are depressants. Saying hurtful things are depressants. Pills too.
The highest status you can receive comes from being unconditionally lovely to everyone. Be outlandishly generous til it becomes an ongoing joke. You get more gifts from life that way. Reveal feelings (especially crushes) because life is too short to conceal much, and honesty is the greatest high. Fall in love with someone who loves your mind as well as your body, and sees you as an entire universe, not just parts to pick up and put down. Turn dark feelings into paintings or dances or poems. Let your poetry be your scream and don’t censor yourself.
Avoid the following: genetically modified food, meat and dairy, fluoride, cocaine, and anyone blind to divinity. Love your hair although it is loud and tangles, your legs, although they extend beyond anyone elses, your button nose, your crooked spine, because all these things are divine. Focus less on looking like a barbie, barbie can’t write poems or channel- and more like being a Botticelli goddess, being your truest, most unapologetically soulful self. Treat yourself the way you want your world to treat you, and it will ripple out like silvery, pearly water, and all you will receive is luck and magic and beauty and wonder and truth-because thats what you are. Remember we are bound by blood and the way we treat ourselves is the way we treat each other.
Remember you are an actual angel.
I tried to fix the pain with baths. Countless baths.
Trying to suspend my sorrow in holy water,
to fill myself with something
that was not you.
Drawing bath after bath, floating, dying to be submerged and held for hours on end.
Some with rose petals, witch hazel, sea salt, and opalic clouds of foam- to make you softer, to make me prettier.
Some were cunning. Those ones were dyed crimson, with dragons blood and jasmine, burning so hot that they stained my skin and left an afterglow, so I could seduce and lure you back, savagely, quickly.
There were bright ones, with honey and marigold, milk, lavender and amber- to draw the happiness out of you. To make your eyes light up at the sight of me, again. To help you remember.
Then there were ones with charcoal, brewed of blood and snakes venom, to purge you out of me.
The darkest, blackest things. To make me hard and strong.
And each time I would emerge, unquenched and dehydrated by you, seething.
It’s different now. There is a dissonance in knowing I am holy and being treated otherwise. It's too intense for you, with so much soul it seeps out of me, seeps out of my hands and fingers like rivers with the magnitude of stars. I did not come here to concern myself with the hearts of men. God is my drug dealer.
I long to stray back into the forest and rest amidst the woods and mountains and learn their secrets before anyone else’s.
To be mystically baffled by something bigger than you or me.
Only the earth can give me what I need.
I am a scandalously honest skipping stone on the way to heaven, willing to sage your privates, take hikes in the astral plane and let you undress me in the forest.
A Mesmerizing cosmic lunar-tic looking for thrill thief with the soul of a musician and the wardrobe of a lottery winning pirate. Limited responsibilities and an excess of money and time are preferred. Should be woven of the silk of the most luminous stars. Emotionally articulate, and willing to read erotica on megaphones while riding through the Bible Belt on white horses.
A plus if you know the difference between The Greys and Pleiadians, or have any mediumistic qualities.
When she touched him, she felt her hands run through him, like water. It was impossible to decipher where his feelings began and hers ended. It was impossible to tell if she longed for him or dreaded him. She wanted to torment him and also reward him. It was primal electricity, passionately cruel. It was remembering.
There was a haunt in the energetic familiarity. An intangible, non linear remembering in the feeling of his hands, his essence. They spoke of past lives, about myriads of lifetimes where two were bound. They didn’t speak of what to do when it made her ill. The weight of being bound by invisible rope, snaking into her gut like an infection that only she knew.
It was not enough to know this was not the first time, not enough to wait achingly for the image of him to not be so solid. She itched for the link to disintegrate and no longer torment her like a timeline only she could access. Even the thought of him felt like heavy flesh.
She had walked enough through his universe, leaving lasting, golden footsteps, through stages of innocent and reckless, tragic and erotic. She decided she could only cure herself with the sea.
She was as pale as the dead in the moonlight, and kicked off her clothes quickly, the tips of her red hair cascading brilliantly against her waist like wisps of gold. Her skin as luminescent as the changing of opals. Her eyes were full of candles, so unfixed that no man would ever know their color. She greeted the sea as an old friend, head slightly bent, before charging at it, eyes wild. There, she basqued, naked, in the honey of the moonlight that poured out onto the oceans flesh.
“I release you.”
She screamed into the sea, feeling a blazing wave of holiness clash up against her legs and waist and shoulder blades, until it almost swallowed her. In the infinite expanse of the ocean, the thought of him felt like a distant memory, only existing to serve as an aquatic mass she had once lost herself in.
She felt him turn from a wound, to liquid, to dust- til it fermented and turned to story.
Time consolidated the murmurs in her heart, and when she was ready, she sat down and wrote about them.
Oh her? She's crazy.
You can’t argue against being crazy without sounding crazy. The archetype of the “crazy girl” is the modern day equivalent to that of the witch. There is no defense against it. It's a new meta-mythology that you can’t argue with. The Crazy Girl. Does she send myriads of jealous texts late at night? Or did she try to throw herself off the balcony of the standard hotel? Doesn’t matter. Same thing. She's crazy. She has too many secrets and she talks too much about sex.
Reclaim the notoriety, provoke people with your absurdity, solely live based on moment to moment impulse and melodramatic displays of emotion. People will always be afraid of watching women let their emotions out, as if they only unleash only bad things. They will tell you that you are too defiant, too tempestuous, too difficult.
Well, fuck that.
Most people are bored, and they need something to talk about. It makes them feel big and valuable. Somehow, shaming fiery women makes their lives more interesting, shaping passion and drive into some sort of distorted, half assed fairy tale. .
I can be your character, I make a great one. But don’t tell stories that are boring.
Tell them about the time I cursed my ex and in violation, he broke both of his legs. Tell them how well acquainted I am with pain, how I wear my scars blaringly, on my sleeve. Tell them how I did that one thing, at that one place, in front of the wrong person. Tell them how I am only satisfied by the woods and mountains. Tell them I’ve been visited by aliens. Tell them about my tongue, tell them how I dance on tabletops and roll around in grass. Tell them I am feral and insane, it will only make you feel brighter and better.
Don't compromise your passion or condemn your own capacity to feel so greatly. Don’t condense or refine yourself. Let yourself spill out and overflow with vivacious ecstasy, with grandiose feeling and neon opinions.
The world is my subconscious, and I am a time travelling fairy. I am go go dancing in this mass hallucination. And I don't care if that makes me crazy.
I don't want a man, I want an alien life form, unpossessive and more complex and mysterious than a man. Something immune to the acidity of lost wisdom. Foreign and complex, with hands that transcend time and space, and eyes that speak silk. I want unreal happenings and delicate nights in outer space. I don’t want anything that will take me away from my pretendings, i want something that will add to them, glitter them, color them. I want extraterrestrial love making and time traveling waltz’s.
Urgent beauty and giggly truth. Feeling in excess. Something that will take me away from the suffocation of the mass hallucination named reality.
I shouldn’t be so surprised when the people I idealize turn out, in fact, to be human.
It is hard for me to separate from what is my innately romantic nature and what is the inheritance of an ideal imposed by Disney movies and the tyranny of patriarchal culture. I am afraid that I have been taught that my completion arrives in the body of another. I yearn to break free from these mythological lies, to resuscitate my imagination like a doctor of dreams, to seek a love beyond wanting to belong to or possess another. When I was younger and more malleable, easily swayed and inspired, I was insistent only on getting lost in forests of people, both dense and rigid, wild and unkempt. Letting myself disintegrate in shreds, observing from three feet above my body, like watching the erotic melancholy of ruined black silk. Through my own loss, I could keep the enchanted chambers of luminous stuff hidden, and just fall, bottomless, into another.
I refuse to perpetuate the idea that love needs to feel requited or earned or deserved to exist. Love just is. It is an impenetrable essence, and if it's real, it can never be threatened. Therefore,I have been attached to the etheric embodiment of people without their physical manifestation, fallen in love with their absence, fallen even more in love with their potential, because then they stay fairy tale creatures, and my storytelling is never exhausted. Perhaps I will always be in varying degrees of love with people, and they will falter seamlessly into one another, departing as one loss. But, a discreet sun is tearing things open with age, reminding me that I have to make the pattern better.
I have to anchor down something real, no matter how attached I am to an invisible ideal. I don't want to exist only at night. I want to share my secrets like oysters and champagne. I want to be your mystery erotica. I want to be vulnerable like white roses. I want to know that you’ll be here, in the flesh, in your uncomfortable skin suit, to watch me unravel, no matter how long it might take.