Another showerhead and some more pretty eyes.
I ask how can she formulate her own beauty if she exclaims from the inside? 
She's proved by her own outline and I say, I swear she's confident it's the best outline she's ever seen.
The blur must glow an undefined message that she can only acknowledge as you wish you had this, 
Or I wish you weren't mine.

She's got trust issues and that feather in her throat strokes a mean rhythm,  she's not my friend, she's my sister and she can't read the words.
You were good at maths, advanced to the methods class. So I ask you know, why are so you basic with your shallow manipulation? I'd admire you if you insulted me as I was turning around but you avoid to even begin to ignore my glow, my blur and my outline that was made and stated identically to yours; at the same time.

Regards to below
Ill say I'm never going to admit to an end, and I probably won't but months and days and weeks and weekends and days off school and family holidays and family dinners have tailed past since mid year.
I've thought of possible angles I could've seen or should see now parallel to the weight. I've endured the cliche bath tub *relax, reflect and cry by candlelight and some jazz music so I could scoff down a taste of a different companionship.
I don't want to say it and I forbid to forbid myself from restricting any enrichment. I talk poor and playfully foregoing my prestige that stretches a muscle of religion somewhere in me.
I'm progressing into a clarified metaphor of any cinematic qualms I'm holding onto hesistate and say it's from you. 

These days and ambitions born merely from mostly scandalous. And somewhat dishonour.
Fuck you

Finally scrapped that shit forming a wall between the sweet scratching of metal and tonal defeaning so cosy its almost comforting.
I found my knees about 13 inches above each foot.
Dark coloured carpet to hide the stains and a shiny fuckin showerhead to admire your own pretty fuckin eyes.
I ended up dancing alone whilst you were bare backed and confident to be showering in the dark, door's wide open; practically in my company.
I say, old rock and roll music is much nicer to be carried by you're lonesome self.
This could be trust issues, or just your sister's home made bitchy fuckin attitude.
So you can stay over there with your sexy self, standing in the rain with your very pretty eyes and I'll sit over there- frankly opinionated and wearing leggings again.

You know the moment when you turn to see your sister staring at her own reflection in the shower head. You wonder why when she's showering in the dark and the song your listening to provokes an unsettling urge of a head turn back to your heart ache and where you're from.
You keep me hanging on

Bloody, stupid I don't even know what to call it. Is it a style? Or merely a skill? What's the purpose of skipping words to make sense of something great and describably personal?

I probably won't even be able comprehend of what I meant but at least I'll be happy my sentences are words making up pretty.

Childish ideas a fifteen year old once moralised to forget the contents of my bedroom in trust they'd forget theirs. Too many romance movies and ambition to satisfy the dreamy.
Now
A lonely count between the hours of seconds asserting the confidence it will happen. And I won't be waitinf much longer, it's just around the corner; my first dream is near it's end and my exploration is beginning to expand beyond myself,  and hopefully onto you: whoever you are, and then I close the fable persisting in denial for something of my own I can write about.

I still suffer the knot weighing down my eyelids. I am the patient to my patience, holding as I'm wishing. Dazing to meet the folds of the stereo. Dreamt with spread legs, we wish for a company's fence to wire a safety so it's flush.

Her words split from her contextual intent of sentiment. Sitting as a platter of her age-
she's static. a contrast, regrown to separate; she's got bad habits.
She's proud of her literacy and literally she can't seem to find the commonality between all that her words tell me. her belief of a dramatic final is written because she's over it, there's no more of it.she manipulates conclusively, now an eventuality thats made exclusively to her naivety, shes won the battle, shes written her dark words of pain and the drugs, what shes lost and all that which strains her to unfold and redirect the focus of her motor. 
She's at the seams and her words a vague conjunction and now she can only see a repetitive fight of the emotional process.
Avoids dressing her bed because where its bare comforts her. Shes a gap to the silk stitching of her mattress.
Her thanks disguises on her self political

Again the missing part of my brain won't expel it's analogical objective to it's subjective.

I'm trying to describe the glare of my tv and how it's an nuisance to the warmth of my bedroom BUT I am stricken by the reminder of my bloody flaw of scenic literacy and where it comes from, or where it doesn't come from.

I beg you to clean up and spick as the seams as neat and compulsive.
Sickening its beginning to sound as the offense and contradiction to how beautiful I am proved to be.

I wrote a post not too long ago about questioning yourself as you age or find a place for yourself.
Ive learnt it comes when you know who you are. And then typically, as you think you've found peace, you're back in an old place elsewhere and constantly reminded of misfortune and flaws.
Where did I go wrong?
I am close to the most respectful person I know so why am so very fucking often trampled by people and their centered behaviour?
I look back to the fluctuation in teenagehood. I understood and learnt my burdens and lived by the morals as the aid to a happy and peaceful life.
I had to be fair, and stay fair as I would have to deal with something painful, uncomfortable or annoying otherwise.
I thought life was a smooth roll from here on in, because I deserved it. Because I've had a lot of hardship compared to any average Melbourne teenage girl, and because I'm a fucking quality person. And I finally believe that.
I will not live on in naivety but ill believe we get what we deserve and it will all be okay and I'll be happy and living somewhere nice soon.

I don't want you on my blog.
I don't want to type in my url and scroll down to find words describing the weight of my knees or the whine of my thoughts searching to feel lighter.
I don't want to read vein literature and remember I wrote and published it to admit to why I once ended up here.

There's very few photos I still have that can take me back to places or particular times and be taken by surprise, happy, grateful and a shameful feeling because it may have been forgotten, all at the same time.

I can't seem to remember who ended up taking that very warm group cuddle in my bed that very cheek Saturday morning. Regardless of whoever it was, they were there and I'm almost positive they snuck in the middle of us four right after the flash-or the slow sniff in my hands. I can recall recalling the absence of complaining, suffocation or claustrophobia. Somehow, each of us and each of our joints and limbs, bums, boobs and heads found somewhere to be outlined only by cotton of my sheets and acknowledgement of our company. 

Most of the time I'm not really inclined to reflect how the story I can see, and that's usually because I can't prioritise the best or most important parts. 

The least important part is reciting the drugs we were on, (I usually try my hardest to avoid mentioning any  drug habits of mine or someone else's but this time it feels necessary] I was on LSD. I'm pretty sure I was riding solo that night. I'm not entirely sure as Darcie would sometimes accompany the tripping at the night club. 

She's in bed with me and Josh, as is the hiding UFO who I have no idea is, and I can't figure out. 

It was warm and their was so much blanketing us as comfort in our dressed clothes- and the bloody sunglasses that didn' t shadow my visuals I remember clouding above our knee caps, and somewhat a surrogacy to informing me of what it means. I still remember the colours, shape, form, movement; Where I was looking, how heavy my clothes felt, and how they reminded me I was alive and human as I was baring my palms to the ceiling as a complete welcoming. And a gentle greeting to my aunty walking in to collect her daughter. I suspect there were thick vibes and at that time, Aunty Julie could feel it and I could feel her acceptance, and then I quietly heard the her loudest ongoing trouble that she's been carrying everywhere.  Easy -

"JULZ GET IN! COME OOON, ['YES''YAY'] - GROUP HUGGGG, aaaawwwwwwwww"

She crawled in like she couldn't resist a group hug in that massive bed of mine, and with those vibes going on I'd be worried if somebody could deny it. I am still impressed with the synergy, and now practicality of the bed's size; I ended up in an understanding of potentiality- believing any fault amongst us don't, or never did exist and I am taken away to an utter state of blissful satisfaction with absolute no bullshit.\ It only after dawned on me to reflect where I was, And that was it. 

I've found myself in the neverending Like A Version loop of Youtube again.

A few photos from one developed film.
Disposable cameras 8 pack from KMart, unsure how much they are because of my sister's somewhat beneficial clepthmania. 

I cannot disguise you anymore. Ill start admitting with my eyes closed.
And talking alongside a blank stare into space.
Hoping I am distracted early enough,
From questioning the stance that stands beneath the staring

Most people commonly find themselves reading about other people or other people and their things.
There is always a third person boast about someone more important, more sad or more inspiring.

I'm fucking writing an emotional diary entry over Facebook chat.
And now I'm shaking it off onto my wit, and understanding that I lack the poetic poise in my words she'd prefer.
I'll commend her though. I'm impressed with her skill to manipulate. 

I've always  asked myself, and them; whether they know they do it.
Usually I'm ironically denied and redirected with a flying ball of 'how dare you? I am completely reasonable with howmuchmoreimportantwhatisayisregardless'. Then I have to think twice as hard to stay disciplined and remember back to what the issue is- all in the time she gives me to claw their words.
And show them my understanding.
I'm stood corrected and advised by the reoccurring morality of their heist to stand back, and detach myself. To let the explanation be heard of once again how it hurts.. which I've eventually counted to factorise and now regrettably conclude.

You eventually find yourself hesitant with a wide lense and opportunity to lamp. The opportunity to put your foot forward is dismissed as a hopeful-dampener to soften it all and to probably get them to shut the fuck up.

I'm fascinated by the crevice some just unfathomably seem to miss to acknowledge every time. But my fascination in an episode of their emotive attitude has finally begun to lose its interest.

Action shots of my yellow dog

Morning routine on the couch

I have finally successfully smoked weed again earlier tonight.
I don't know exactly what to write about it but I came here to post a post of gratitude to my excitement.

Welcome home.

I'm glad you've got good company all the time. So, you appreciate it.

But when you point your fingers at me and lean back with a smile, waiting for my reaction towards your shit as, lame joke I'm not sure whether to laugh, cry or tell you to sit down.

There's articles everywhere about how much time is ideal to spend with your loved ones or partner and I'm telling you; as soon as you start pulling someone else's leg with their joke; you gotta remove yourself and ride solo- just for a little bit.
I've never really seen the potential to this issue we have with relationships until now. Maybe it's because of my age and I never really cared. Or it could be a case of "you used to be cool". Which is unfortunately classic- we've all been there.
I've accepted any reasons come to the same conclusion:
You're spending too much time together,  you're not the same anymore

I find if we're involved at all in something like this, we either; refuse to do something about it, or deny any admittance to it.
I can't answer why but we all have the tendancy to make sense for the benefit and come up with some reason somebody has changed.
So this time, I'll try find the guts to tell you all this or I'll just remind you of your age and tell you that sleeping alone feels okay, and he's not going anywhere.
 

Tracking back to the numbered list of personal writing ideas, I consider acting upon my commitment.
"Day 02 - Your first love"
God damn it, just as I felt like doing something productively positive for myself I am guaranteed to be shunned by the idea of engaging in any memory of you.

I'm here to reiterate my title as an artist. Again- yes I did draw another naked body sitting in front of me.
She was loud, obnoxious and overly friendly, and I mean overly friendly by how comfortable she was to look me in the eyes and open her gown at me.
Focus on the heater, she's just warming up, it must be cold in here naked, just look at the heater, laugh and look away, she looks hungry for you.
One moment, one vagina and a set of tits. And me. So vulnerable and clothed. And shardy. She was shardy. And naked. I was shardy and fuckin startled, I'll tell ya that. 

Yoooou and you words, their concept and conjunction
Your concept and conjunction
Your words
Grade to impress the fuck out of me and the understanding out of you.
You despired me; to act upon my despising skills to write.
A competition between your comprehension and mine-maybe; but a mistaken race you just certainly won.
I'll seize my creative writing to read yours and save myself from embarrassing concealment.

[When thinking of the quality of that particular passage, and poetry you write is an entanglement in my own brain from the clarity of yours.
Which optomically translate into a maze of water pipes running through the idea of your fuzzy purple hair tie.
Or one of those untangle puzzle things you buy from a National Geo store, but yours I can see the sense!]

Yoooou have made me ramble about my envy and commendations, given from the passage your wrote about a man with a long grey beard, a colourful something, five legs and something good to say.
Resembles a dream time story.
Fucking good work, Stephanie, an A plus plus to you most definitely. You deep, metaphorical bitch.

I'm a bit disappointed.
My blog seems to me as an uninteresting,  stiff centered tumble of short words about my big fuckin' feelings.

Ive just found an old progress report

...

She keeps telling me she wants to do it how she always does it; how she's used to.
She's shitty, always shitty but there's no fall to a little musical manipulation with this one. She's already comfortably writing to my choice of musical companionship.
Her words won't shy from her fathom, and I won't avoid listening to them. And finally, I hear an expression of wholesome exclusion; she has finally said goodbye.
She's still shitty but she'll be happy and she knows why, and she knows how. And she won't need a high volume of anything to pat her on the back.
Good on you, Steph.
I'm proud of you.
         You keep your green head up and keep looking where you're looking.

Extra broad

Before she goes to detox.
It's a shame she hasn't had sheets on her bed for over a month.
Maybe she wants to feel closer to home.

Good luck for tomorrow Stephy.

Why do they end up all singing about the same fucking thing?

Gardens 

Cradles my clouds and it sits me down.

I wanna know why my blog is written with so much fucking sentiment? I read over it and realise the embarrassment I may experience when registering as a third person.

Emotions you have shot up and exploded as the silver lining against my retina and the provocative to my tear ducts.
I welcome you home to reiterate the outdated intuition I recognise to figure out where I am, or where I stand, or where others stand around me.
You speak as a sentimental explanation of the importance to what I experience; but I struggle to decipher the mumbling that tries to suffocate any sensibility and clarity as the candid light rehearses by rebellion and freedom.

"

John was a smoker. He got cancer of the

larynx (voice box. His voice box was 

removed. He has to learn to talk again.

Now he can only breathe through the hole in 

his neck.

Want help with quitting?

Call Quitline 13 7848, talk to your doctor 

or pharmacist, or visit www.quitlinenow.gov.au

'AUSTRALIAN FIRE RISK STANDARD COMPLIANT. 

USE CAR IN DISPOSAL.'

"

I'll admit to wanting to call you one of my best friends; only due to the evidence of my admiration for you. I find you entertaining and uplifting. 

You gotta realise that your choice of words actually soften some moments and you just fuckin' walk off like you're already expecting a thanks to it. 

Ya fucking brilliant little blondie, I'll keep you as one of those people I'll remember as the reminder that the majority of humanity are not that shallow and do have something good or stylish to say.

Fuck, the words I've just successfully executed.. Now I can stop dramatising the emphasis of how cool you are to the people I know.

Awesome girly, please don't run too far from me.

Yeah, 

These music recordings exceedingly apply to the appeal of my heart and how my eyes judge the strain of the shine.

This sun is too good to waste. So you walk out your bedroom door, and commit to doing something you don't even know!

Bathroom cigies ...

None of their spoken words seem to be detected as worthy or interesting enough to quote and forward onto my blog.

What has my life come to

I have a slight feeling it maybe something good and worthwhile keeping. I've strayed away from soundcloud and deep house and onto a shallow knowledge of real music.
I've definitely lost my knack to execute energy and good spirits as the nights preparation.
I settle on believing I'm just fucking boring and no longer funny to be around. A disappointment indeed because the old time company  found myself amusing, just as much as I did.
Now I've taught myself and regret to admit my jokes sound funnier in my head and witnessing me slouch and laugh to myself doesn't and won't suffice.

I say this and click my heels three times hoping I teleport straight and instantly, back to theatrical.
Embedded words reveal yourself.
I've got nothing to say.

Seems you're becoming my new, best company

celebratory with the ettyblob

Still using this idea, unfortunately

I've just realised how youthful and lazy, and shallow the writing in my blog posts have sequently seem to end up.

I'm having recollective ideas these days so I can further myself.
Yes, I've only just realised that I'm back at the start of the linguistic enrichment I remember I acquired way back when I first started writing; trying to sound cool, and poetic with some big fuckin' words and philosophical "wonders".
But hey, it worked, it really did open my mind to whatever is bigger or better, and it extensively gave me the idea that I have to find those places.

Hello Blogspot, we've met again I see.
I'm not sure what to right but I have been advised by my big brain of mine to just ramble on about anything; and disregard any informal or incorrect punctuation or grammar.
Haha

So,
I went to the AFL grand final [look at me using caps already], to see my bloody team play against Sydney Swans.
This is going to start sounding like a year eight 'back from holidays, what the fuck did you do?' essay.. So my apologies in advance.
It was a good game although I kind of wish it was a closer match so I could get nerve rack and start sweating and screaming at anyone who goes for goal. But it didn't really turn out like that; Hawthorn had the game 15 minutes in. Boring, I know but we relied on chance they hadn't had a certain win as of just before third quarter.
Haha it is like a year eight reflective task,
I need to grow up or read a thesaurus or something because my own writing is beginning to really bore me.
I surprised myself at the comments I pulled to the players but I couldn't resist since the seats dad bought for us were fucking impressive.
And honestly, I haven't seen or felt a more uplifting space in a very long time. Going from three to five people and the same four walls to a hundred thousand and an innumerable amount of concrete walls making a circular auditorium with a sunroof as big as the floor. So much good noise, that was really fucking loud but this time didn't even shock any tears. And the vibesssss, my god, that was something I took with me home. Well I hoped to anyway, it so god damn, bloody refreshing.

So I'm up to day one; 'introduce yourself'. I've been dreading writing this and I'm already debating whether to exit and leave this as a draft.
I'm a broad character and I'm not sure what exactly I should pride myself on these days because I'm not sure what's cool, or what is trendy. I spend most of my days solo, probably because I'm satisfied with my own company, and if I'm not; I'm not on my own - or I'm really bored.
I sit down and close my legs, and I almost always end up leaning forward with excitement or because I'm lazy.
And I'm guessing people don't know how to take either.
I regret the hole I was living in. Only to crawl out with my arms up; people greeted me by asking me why my arms are up and if it's a first.
I've progressed exceedingly through the past couple of years, I've grown and I've moulded into something I can carry lightly since the last time I've done one of these things.
I think about how people see me too often, and I fear they live on what they remember - and I know people only remember the worst. Until recently, I leaned forward flirtatiously and I smiled at jokes that weren't funny - which I ended up regretting because it really wasn't that funny when I recognised a personality disorder. And suffering a multiple personality disorder really wasn't worth a fake laugh - or my boyfriend leaving me for someone else [but unfortunately I thank my personality issues weren't only to blame for this].
I was in love, yes, indeed I was; so incredibly in love. I'm still in love but I refuse to write too much to encourage unwanted heightened emotions, and I don't want to be sitting here trying to dissect the meaning of our relationship. It was large, and pretty fucking rare. So I'm just working on the patience to get to the stage when all I can say is I'm glad it happened; he taught it all to me. I still think of the cliche poetic ways I can describe the times we shared, but I suspect my words won't spill because my heart's still holding on.
I'm not good at relationships, I've realised how difficult it was to build or uphold a friendship. So after that grand one I shared with Sam, I'm learning what it means to hold onto more than one person.

.----------------p;

I still know the religion of your mouth and your words. I remember trying to decrypt what you meant to squint, or what it took to weigh down your lips. Wondering how heavy light was for you, and if I could adapt to the lifting.
Months of study, I acquired the idea of your still and your steadiness.
Typically, 
I questioned your morality. Typically,  I gave up the work for the inevitable answer to join you.
I'm sorry but I was infatuated with my focus-focusing on our safety, eliminating any dangerous opportunity.
I ran a structural line of an over confident idea of a relationship, with the idea we'll be okay, and everything will turn out fine once we get into the swing of things. 
I regret that swing and how far it swung; from the rhythm of what we started on.
I still think about you.
And I still regrettably speak your name without a peripheral of your fists or your grinding teeth.
I reminisce the relationship cowardice. I reminisce as a coward.
I impose any conclusion of how we actually laid in bed. And I'll deny what inevitably destroyed us, so I can get to sleep. 
Unfortunately,

I write occasionally about this. Mostly to acknowledge it happened and deflect any realist explanation of being alone and how I got there.
Unfortunately, I can still imagine the detail to comfort me, but the repetitive contextual tick I hear ticks loud when I lean back into those places we made, sadly and shamefully it tells me you've left. 

I write so many Shitty bullshit words about you and my bloody, fucking regrets. My shallow words embarrass the embarrassment I write and sit here planning to read a thesaurus and shaking my head.
I don't want to be writing about you still.
I fathom how many times I can use the same words, or how much I'll have to write to truly portray it all.
I think, remember, memorise and try to learn but hanging my head toward my chest seems an inevitable shame.
I can't win.

My sister's already sitting down in a taxi on her way home from a date with that very fucking stylish, not-too-bad-to-look-at wanker from behind the bar at Revs. He's alright - pretentious - but all right; perfect for my sister.

angry sist

You forgot to stop giving a fuck about not giving a fuck.

Remember that one, though.
You patient.

Remember that spikey ball they sent you? The downstairs loungeroom flashed in front of you and there was you. You recall the confidence and you experienced that fuzzy ball moving clear into the spaces you forgot you had.

You're better than them because you had that fuzziness as the clarity of your social respect.

I feel like I've forced myself back here.

I've taken my time, like they all advise, 'you don't want to rush into things'.
You can worry about

Warm spring mornings, conventionally and ultimately cooking me. The sun stings with a refreshing coolness although my eyes will proceed to sit a volume swelling to be held in place.
Which reminds me of this unknown urge of a little something I've met before but never revealed. Only shoved beside me as the minority to my good mood.
I suspect its communication from the cusp of the black hole where all unwanted feelings go. Yes, it speaks. It quietly roars. A roar I'll probably never be able to dissect to understand entirely but I can surely hear it.
I'll adapt to its language soon, and I'll learn the silent letters just so I don't have to deal with the realty I've apparently missed out on.
Sober or sober. 
Surpressing it all was never a reasonable excuse to turn around to a different
Turning around to another direction was hardly close to a guarantee, to any natural emotional therapy that I could recover entirely from.
A bad habit to press it downwards especially with the firmness of your palm. As you begin to trust yourself and your power, you'll soon be fooled and these god damn shivers will just rise back up. So you've discovered your power, you thought you were bigger than what you felt. So you walk and wait to sit where its safe but you're startled with the flood that has dunked you to show you that you can't run to escape.
Now you gotta scoop up with buckets amd you knoq you're hands are only toys now, and youre looking down, asking if I can do it again, if I can surpress this mess until it calls again.
You question time and you standardize what becomes normal or a ritual, or does learning to protect yourself from all your past trauma could ever become inevitable?

Strengthened you are and proved by the light executing as the present  definition to reiterate the subsequence.
A split second cherished and now a memory and an entity of truly existing.
You're only the witness to what you see.
As the shadows only cast as a contradiction, light reveals a form thus producing shapes identified by contrast. 
We understand the ignition that introduces the movement we seize to forget is only defined by the darkness of its shadow.
So how light can light upper raise to enhance and sit as the reason to existence and a distraction to it's treason.
Should the gratitude focus on what bribgs up most forth as the leader to experience. Or am I supposed to walk amongst the streets looking at all things pretty only to thank it's darkness to promote its rarity therefore defining what truly is beauty? 
Do I begin at the first hand to walk amidst the oblivion or do I deny the distance of the plank to walk on forwards?
Knowing what I witness as admiration maybe begin as shallow to later be corrected. 

I ask if all we see is evidence to our existence?
Is the beauty we see as the appeal to the evidence?
Shall all beauty we experience be excusable of its focus, and therefore a given reason to doubt.
Shall we flatten the brightness and forget how far the energy has traveled to walk on believing this world is as beautiful as whats been captured as photography.
Do I live on in denial and ignorance to see it more pretty?
Should I stop looking to find whats the weight of lightness

Weed aspirations

So I'm back here again blogging on the blog I've realised I only come to visit in the early hours of the night, or morning. It's 420 hours into Saturday; a time more than ideal to roll up some green and toke to open your eyes to the stars beyond the haze.
Instead I'm back here again blogging, under the same roof, looking at the same damn purple carpet, thinking about my room and the love it's been missing. 
This environment was love, it was all I knew at one point - or remembered. So I cannot deny how warm it feels to be here once again. But to feel this warmth, I know the conditions it takes to get here.
A cheeky smile I smile whilst I hold my knees in, looking down at the same god damn purple fucking carpet. Yes, I'm waiting for the pipe to be passed to me, again.
I wonder now how I could look back to reminisce and differentiate which time was which or what day was what.
The conditions I'll abide to pull that cheeky smile I will only consider you as that week night before my birthday that was so senile it seems to have taken two years.

As of Tuesday I can finally call myself an artist.
I've spent hours in my room, straining my eyes in the dark and throughout the days to come to a day like this and say yes. Yes, I did. Yes I did in fact draw a older man with an admirable physique in the nude and yes, if in case you were wondering;  his private parts were commendable.

And I'm pretty sure he was from the South East and was gay but kudos to his pretentious life because no one else could lay there for so long without making eye contact with the person that was staring at his balls for so long.
And yes, that might have been me.

I still regret giving it all to you,

I thought I was reciprocating.

I'm looking back at it all. I look back and I feel full, then I compare, and sense emptiness.

Try it
Day 01 – Introduce yourself
Day 02 – Your first love
Day 03 – Your parents
Day 04 – What you ate today
Day 05 – Your definition of love
Day 06 – Your day
Day 07 – Your best friend
Day 08 – A moment
Day 09 – Your beliefs
Day 10 – What you wore today
Day 11 – Your siblings
Day 12 – What’s in your bag
Day 13 – This week
Day 14 – What you wore today
Day 15 – Your dreams
Day 16 – Your first kiss
Day 17 – Your favorite memory
Day 18 – Your favorite birthday
Day 19 – Something you regret
Day 20 – This month
Day 21 – Another moment
Day 22 – Something that upsets you
Day 23 – Something that makes you feel better
Day 24 – Something that makes you cry
Day 25 – A first
Day 26 – Your fears
Day 27 – Your favorite place
Day 28 – Something that you miss
Day 29 – Your aspirations
Day 30 – One last moment

It all finally caught up to me.

So I leant on it's branches and faced the horizon.

I think I might have been welcomed by the world and it was fucking excellent to see you again.

Believe what you see as it is, as sometimes what comes across to you is how it's supposed to be seen.

There's little for myself to believe otherwise, and I don't think I want to.
A tree down the street asked me to join him.
I walked home awake, and alive.
I walked home entirely safe, astounded with it's reminder and incredibly grateful.

Now I remember who I was, and what I'd forgotten.

If you were to see what defines what you see as well being focus, has somewhat proved to be true or pure appreciation.

I choose to ignore how monopolised this all could, in a reality, seem, but I'll live on believing.

The tree that lives on the corner.

I will keep on trying.

Just generally a very fucking sunny day.
Fuck

A fucking sunny day in Port Melbourne.

Very fucking sunny.

Everybody hates you when you're on it because you're ugly.
But you probably hate yourself more because you agree with that.

I'm back sitting at a desk and I'm facing a wall.

I'm embarrassed. I'm embarrassed to write, I'm embarrassed to admit this to this place I'm in.
 I can't write anymore, so my words are dull as is the context.
Sad, sad, sad.
I'm sick of that fucking word, and what it means, and it's ability to seep in and around anything potential.

I don't want to get personal with myself.
maybe im scared to see what personally i actually am, or moreso what i've become. therefore what could and are the reasons to what i'm hiding from i already know about the guilt but i'm not sure if i can finally admit how disappointed i am in myself, or even more so how long it has taken me to get to that stage.
i don't even want to write about this shit but i don't know where else to put it. No body wants to hear it, fuck, I don't even want to hear it but I have to understand the reasons as to why I'm back here, sitting in front of a bare fucking wall, guessing I should somehow be starting again and, or, trying to remember who I am, or what I was, what I thought was cool, or why I had even forgotten about all these wonderful things in the first place.
Again with this "sadness"; that of which I shouldn't really be mocking because at the end of this post I'll  probably be either feeling this "sadness", or hopefully, I could walk off pleased with an understanding I can live with, but probably not.
Maybe I'm just scared to find out what actually hurt me was just me.
 I've been sitting here (not in the same spot facing a wall] but sitting here and realising I have been blaming it all on whoever I can remember was around and who mattered.
I dont want to stop blaming them, to only then blame myself and leave them as the innocent. Because they're not around anymore, it'd would only be embarrassing if I only held myself responsible.
I am not prepared to admit to it all.
 Maybe I don't have to, but I might anyway so I don't have to be thinking the life I've lead growing up was abused by the opportunity from others as well as my own curiosity.

I'm scared to reach the point where I ask myself, after I'm finally able to apprehend it all only to then ask was it all really worth it, because it probably never was.

Have you ever tried to persuade a fat person to eat vegetables?

I should have been born an Asian with a Nikon, and I can't even take photos but I bet they can't either.

Some discussions spoken in a risky heat. Documenting Darcie and my scenic ventures down amongst Geelong and the Torquay beaches, familiar faces and recalling old stories.
[Torquay]

Hello Blogspot, it's me and I'm back again - and healthy as ever.
I did it, after two fucking years, I am plump and looking more like my mum, both of which I'm not particularly fond of.
I've finally moulded my lifestyle onto a stable path to success.

I've still got my head upon my shoulders and the hair is filing into a lush.

A lot has happened since my last update, but I'm off to go out clubbing and actually socialise.
Bai

Long live the table legs

These are the bloody table legs holding up a top I have unaccountably sat under for as long as my boney ass remembers.
They aren't too aesthetically advanced but  the thigh to toe

They aren't anything special or fancy, merely aesthetically pleasing but the form that carries from the toes to the thighs have suspectibly embedded behind and before my eyes.
These bare wooden legs hold the foundation to this life's creative ambition.
Or some shit, anyway..

The cube thighs, bowling pin calves and rings. Pasty, poorly varnished timber. Forever I'll stay lured by the opportunity of how much more advanced they could have carved you.

I can see you now underlye the plays of my pen, preventing enrichment by the bore and misfortune I was forced to endure every time I ate dinner.

Spicing up a Tuesday night. Familiar chills never float astray, hey?

Reaching new levels with my old friend, and the trace of my hand.
I'm starting to believe I will never grow out of defacing inappropriate things.
I cannot resist a bare slate, waiting to meet the ink.

It's a good morning in the shed

I've greeted and blessed my new space with tea candles, wine and a great couch. 

I can't be fucked writing more about how incredible the vibe is in here, perhaps I might inform you a little later once the boredom rises but as for now, I am to endure my new space and introduce it and my ears to new, and now quiet music. 

Ciao 

I'm occupied,
too much bullshit flooding my mind to separate the ambience from the magnitude of bullshit.

I'm interrupted.
I'm torn,
and disappointed  -  because the moon's gravitational pull is inarguable, so the bullshit seems here to stay only to shadow my profound, little life.

Just my luck,
just my life.

Oh, the paste of the webcam filter cannot portray the dark shadows lining my face. They stand as a punishment to my silly and insensible behaviour. I could say they are earned but I can't shake off the feeling of my dragging spirit and the slow focus the slides across the floor as I look.
It's been around a month since I began to touch hands with the frames of darkness, but there is merely a full day spent of admitting my destructive, junked movement.

So I sit here, forcing a blog entry out of my poor, violated brain only as a proposal to empathise.
Accompanied I am by the ever so satisfying Maccas coke, my dear older cousin G and that identical looking thing, that at the moment, keeps a repeat in my life worse than the sting of a soft drink nose burp.
Forever I question whatever did I do so wrong, but I'll wait for the days to inevitably shine in the soft silence I long for.

So I'm greeted by yet another lovely morning sky,
-

A good explanation of where I'm at: ?