My Grandma died recently and her funeral is tomorrow. This is for her.
Over the Edge – Nancy Boudreau
Grief’s water flows –
bursting, trickling, crashing
down on my heart’s rock.
Receding quick but leaving
deepened grooves that threaten
to wear me away.
Grief’s water rains –
dripping, freezing, snowing.
A chill and powdered dust that melts
when touched by warm memories
preserved in saline…
My friend told me about a watercolouring techinque where you mix sugar and water and after “painting” the paper with the liquid, you add the watercolour.
I wanted to try it out and took a couple of photos…
I give up arting forever
What the hell
Is that nine-tails from Okami?
Grief is fickle; perishable. An evanescence. One day you wake, late - one or three hours overslept -and honestly you could let your lids droop into another hour at least. You get up, make your morning tea and gaze out your window and realise: you don’t care for any of it. Not anyone. And you’re content. You spend all day online browsing or watching t.v. and eat a reasonable meal and you’re content. Content and desolate: an arid soul in oasis.
The next, you burn brighter than the sun and the stars and the galaxies combined, driving fast and lane weaving in night time traffic, screaming - ‘fine me, catch me, run me down. I dare you,’ - dancing drunk to disco at 1am on Tuesday. And you want to drink every drink and pop every pill and smoke every joint and huff every nang to burn your bright core to ash. And you’re content.
And in the rollercoaster valleys you feel, so dreadfully; the razor’s sharp edge that slices deep and numb…the next morning’s bruise that blooms ocean blue and rotten yolk and that mottles out to purple and eventually fades. In those moments, life’s just so damn real and you just want to get away.
In those moments, you’re content.
So fucking bipolar -_-
—Charles Dickens (via cr1ms0ns1lv3r)