I had this feeling suddenly. I get this feeling a lot, but I don’t know if there’s one word for it. It’s not nervous or sad or even lonely. It’s all of that, and then a bit more. The feeling is I don’t belong here. I don’t know how I got here, and I don’t know how long I can stay before everyone else realizes that I am an impostor. I am a fraud. I’ve gotten this feeling nearly everywhere I have ever been in my life. There’s nothing you can do about it except drink some water and hope that it subsides. Or you can leave.

I’m lonely. What kind of loneliness? Every kind. I feel disconnected. Abandoned. As always. Repetition. So what, my love? So what? At first, I just wanted to run away. Now I have no where else to run to, nothing to run from. I don’t belong anywhere, I don’t want to go anywhere, I just want to be happy.

(1) Czeslaw Milosz, New and Collected Poems: 1931-2001 (2) Leila Sales, This Song Will Save Your Life (3) Daniela Fischerová, Fingers Pointing Somewhere Else (4) Wisława Szymborska, tr. by Clare Cavanagh and Stanisław Barańczak, from “The Railroad Station”, Map: Collected and Last Poems (5) Daul Kim (6) Sarah Kay, from “The Paradox”, No Matter the Wreckage

For a long time now, every meeting with another human being has been a collision. I feel too much, sense too much, am exhausted by the reverberations after even the simplest conversation.

May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude

gripping my thighs with my nails about this written by @ryebreadgf

when death comes by Mary Oliver

Charles Bukowski, "hurry slowly," from Come On In!

On soft spring nights I'll stand in the yard under the stars — something good will come out of all things yet— and it will be golden and eternal just like that — there's no need to say another word.

Jack Kerouac, big sur

He knows none of my secrets and yet he wants to kiss me — this is not flattering in the least. Fine, secrets may come down the road. Scars too. But smiles? Did he see my full range of smiles? Did he see the smile after the lame joke he cracks and the smile after I say something bold and the smile after I hear him say something a bit too earnestly sweet? Maybe he did. Maybe my issue is that unless everything is spoken, narrated like in a book or movie, my brain refuses to believe it exists. But actions. I don't even know what's the benchmark? I know the benchmark for words. Bur what about actions? For that I need to be less in my room, in my bed, on my phone like I am 16 and more out with you and him and the others for spontaneous karaoke nights and then crash at your place waking up to the quite nice iced coffee you make. But I'm not. I'm here. I'm trapped. I feel more trapped than I did as a teenager. Is that it? Is all my sadness and all my frustration just fomo and discomfort? That's funny. Not funny haha but funny I want to smash something so very hard into the mirror even if it's my hand.

to be perceived is such an agony.

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

The Passion Flower at the Gate by Julia Margaret Cameron Albumen print, 1867 (...) There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate. The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;" And the white rose weeps, "She is late;" The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;" And the lily whispers, "I wait." (...) (Song from Maud by Alfred Tennyson)

chen chen from ‘when i grow up i want to be a list of further possibilities’

when you are born without your bearings, the world is an eerie place; it's a dark forest and you can't always discern the difference between the poison and the white oak. at every turn there's a tree, and another, and another, but you just want to find a house with a familiar face, with love burning in it like a fireplace. i'm not certain all of mankind is made of stardust, because i've sat in a dark room for days without a single glimmer of hope illuminating my veins, but i found flecks of gold in your irises and i'm convinced if i study your eyes like a map, i could pinpoint the path back to my welcome mat. 

— lost || melancholy galaxies (t.e.t.)

when you're younger you make fun of it because it seems boring but one of the best parts of getting older and maturing is recognizing how simply lovely all that cliche shit is. sunsets really are so endlessly satisfying. the hint of lilacs in the breeze really is soft and delicate and sweet. sometimes it feels good just to successfully clean the sink, to find an affordable appliance in the color you've been wanting, to try a new recipe, to finally get through that one television series like how you've been meaning.

it seemed stupid because they tell you - it'll feel quick - but it does feel quick. when i was younger it was like time was molasses. i couldn't get out of there fast enough. all the eras of my life stretched out into taffy. but then you are 29 on a walk with a friend and you both just stop to smell the lily of the valley at your feet. you are both standing there, quiet, enjoying the simple moment of peace.

they say it gets better a lot, which used to have no meaning to me. better for me was undefined and daunting. but here is one way it got better without me trying - a few days ago i was walking my dog and stopped to stand in a sunbeam, turning my cheeks up at the shaft of golden fairylights, the dustmotes in the wood all shivering their little dancing bodies. a stranger stopped and kind of cocked her head and said basking? and i laughed nervously, already moving to get out of her way. instead, she said can i bask with you? and we stood there, full adults, a soundless hum in our chest. when the clouds came back over the sun, we made that awkward small talk - yeah i didn't expect it to be this chilly! and haha spring allergies are comin'.

and you pour yourself a cup of tea and are delighted when you measure the sugar ratio perfectly and you manage to parallel park correctly on the first time (probably because nobody was looking) and yoga really did help your lower back mobility and brown paper packages really do tug on your heartstrings and you love sweaters and furry blankets and watching your little potted plants grow one new and shining leaf and you want to find your younger self and say. yes, i am nostalgic for summers that bent like wheat and were buzzing with low energy and sleep. but darling. adulthood gets better because the time condenses into a prayerbook of your own psalms, these tender beautiful memories. it gets better because things become prettier, gentler, kinder to you - somehow. without you even noticing. you just get to the top of the hill and you realize - oh, this is the thing i've been missing.

guilty

I am guilty and on the run,

I will never be forgiven

I am not the one you know.

I have been high all this time,

trying to make sense of what is mine

Met a man in an old time hat, he said, "this vase looks just like the other one"

Hopping on trains in the light of the moon

Knowing the boys in blue will catch up fo me soon.

After all, they are tracing my smiles.

This is my zillionth apology for my sins,

I'm the worst I've ever been

I'm the worst I've ever been

I have only seen sorrow since, I'm the worst I've ever been and I know I will keep this beat, ask everyone to repeat.

~shaksi.

no one could write it better

a lot of fatphobia exists in extremely puritanical ideas wrapped in modern aesthetics.

it is "justified" if you are bullied, because you were sinful and have not repented your ways. this is the lord's punishment to you. if you wanted it to be different, you would need to go back within the church and accept their god.

others are asking for you to change because it is a matter of spiritual health. they are not your doctor, they are not your friend, they know nothing about your health status; but they feel confident that you can be Saved, the way they know others are Saved.

if you find flaws in their church - such as the massive amounts of money exchanged - you're excommunicated. what do you mean you can be happy outside the church? this is happiness - but we will make sure to torment and deride you if you have somehow found joy without our help.

it's just stating a fact! those that accept the Church are Saved and therefore beautiful and able to be loved and wed and cherished. it's not our fault if our "preference" for others is an incredibly traditional and meek follower of the church. what do you mean that those aesthetics are strange and unnatural? why would the church care if the human body ages? you just have to pray harder when you get older, it's part of life.

there is an epidemic of visibly sinful ones ("i saw a particularly slothful one in a walmart, and they minorly inconvenienced me!"), so we are justified in our actions. no, we haven't actually, like, done anything to help others, but we've been holy our whole lives, so we know the secret to success. or we recently repented, and now we know "anyone can do it". if we shame everyone who is not in the church, they'll eventually break down. we're doing god's work. it is our place to judge.

you must starve yourself and commit yourself to some kind of penance over a long period of time to repent for your previous wrongdoing. may we suggest one of our programs that are super expensive and not scientifically proven? what do you mean that your difficulties with the church stem from more complicated social, political, economic, and environmental factors than "just trying harder"?

once you have tried hard enough, we will love you again. you can have your human rights back! but right now you're not repentant enough, so it's okay if we don't consider you to be fully human.

what do you mean it's bullying? it's just us trying to help. don't get so heated. it's just incomprehensibly harsh judgement.

writing warm-ups

do you wake up and immediately go to work? no! you have coffee and breakfast first, you wash your face, you get dressed. similarly, you have to warm yourself up before facing a writing challenge. warm-ups are also a great way to fight writers' block. here are some ways to do this:

-keysmash poem; mash that keyboard until you get 6-12 random letters. these are the first letters of each line of a poem you will write. oh, you say you're not a poet? i didn't ask! just mash that keyboard and cough a poem up and never read it again. -letter to the editor; pick a topic that pisses you off. the smaller and more arbitrary, the better. write a paragraph detailing the issue to a neutral third party with as much passive aggression as you can muster. -rewrite; grab a random page of some old project of yours and rewrite it. really think about what you like and dislike about that page, look at it from a new perspective, twist it around until it's different-- doesn't matter if the rewrite is better or worse, because you aren't editing here. you're just getting your gears spinning. -fictionalize it; think of something that happened to you, like a brief interaction with a stranger or a funny mix up at work. turn it into a one-page scene. -dream journal; record an interesting dream. list out details you can remember, or write it like a journal entry, or wax poetic about what it all means. -shitty fanfiction; self explanatory. the more self-indulgent, the better. set a timer for ten minutes, blast off, and then pretend it never happened. -deleted scenes; think about the in between moments of your project. write an email from one of your main characters, or a scene from their childhood, or a text conversation log, really anything that you wouldn't put in your main work. -confessional; pick a fictional character, yours or one from a piece of media you love. write their ten confessions in as much detail as you want.

happy writing! let us know if you try any of these, and reblog if you find this helpful!

i like to pretend i already died and asked god to send me back to earth so i can swim in lakes again and see mountains and get my heart broken and love my friends and cry so hard in the bathroom and go grocery shopping 1,000 more times. and that i promised i would never forget the miracle of being here