it-is's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- death to birth The magic I used to thrive on is dying. I could spin days into golden tapestries of child-like amazement and lush beauty. But there is nothing to spin, these days. No raw materials to work with. I'm starving. I'm dying. And I don't know who's fault it is, but the inspiration that used to come so readily is now like smoke that twists away from my fingers as I grasp for it and dissipates on the wind like a phantom. My secret garden treehouse apartment is now a modern condo; I was trying to grow up and in doing so I accidentally killed myself. The irony. If it's possible to age backwards I will. I'll find it. Because being a grown up is the worst kind of death; you have to keep living through it. 10:15 a.m. - 2019-06-14 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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