Author Archives: Sasha

The Burden of Growing Wings

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Go hiking here, go hiking there, hiking to hot springs, hiking to the Hollywood sign. There was a day that a person could describe me as athletic, but that day has past by me and with it came the slow decline of my health, and thus I have found myself on the narrow path towards shallow New York City dreams. As I am young still, I think little of poor decision making and nearly welcome it. It is not every day forever that we have only ourselves to think of, now is the time to take ourselves to ruin, tomorrow we might not be so lucky to be alone.

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Lady Times, LA Times

5

Even though my uterus is punishing me with the shames of womanhood and I am writing this currently through a vicodin induced haze, I can say with certainty that I am more excited about being alive than I have been in some time. My flight on Virgin Airlines was more enjoyable than any other that I have experienced. Friendly, funny, witty, and attractive looking crew and spacious leather seats. Flying over the United States, waking up with a new scenery below me each time, it was so lovely. I’m wielding a sword of positive energy and I’m ready to strike some mother fuckers down with my happiness.

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A Rainy Day Before Departure

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I didn’t know it was raining but by the time I left the house it was too late. I had no scarf to cover my head and no umbrella to sheath me from the miserable dribble. I was wearing my rather large leather and fur jacket that loses all attractive qualities when dripping wet. Some people will still hug you even if you tell them, “You might not want to do that, I’m wet.” Those are good people.

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Forever Nostalgic and Mostly Boring.

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I would say I’m unhappy but I’m not. I tend to follow a general rule of honesty with myself.  One might say I enjoy expressing the misery I’m holding, maybe I even seek it out as equally as I seek love or happiness. Misery can be just as good. But I’m not unhappy, nor am I happy. I find myself genuinely interested in many things with a lackluster of enough interest to be more than just interested. This sort of roundabout creates nothing. Like observing a flower, appreciating a flower, and wanting to capture the flower in paint or in words or in some other medium– but only going so far as observing it from a far, and thinking, which is more or less useless. With nothing particularly exciting or new happening I am instead living somewhere in my mind and chest where a swelling of nostalgia is in full effect. Remembering is often times better than actually living. I want my memories to swallow me like a whale, I could live inside the pain of knowing the past is forever only a dull aching in my chest, I could be happy with that, if it was a constant wave striking me down and sucking me in.

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