Me, The Motherfucker With Over 50 Abandoned Works In Progress: I Have An Idea

I don’t want to be the next Rupi Kaur or Trista Mateer. I want to be the first Lila Kane.

paused mid breakdown after THAT scene from TLOU season 2 to document the psychic and physical damage that WILL inspire my next piece. ache in the back of my throat still hasn’t subsided. i pray for every poor soul who never saw it coming, or knew it was. a tragic, haunting, brawling masterpiece that will BE 2020s television legacy.

Girls when they life starts to sound little bit too much like the fig tree analogy by Sylvia Plath

Made this a while back at uni for a book project around Sylvia Plath the bell jar 🍓🫧🕸️

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantine and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat Proffessions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs where many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant loosing all the rest, and, as i sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

Dead Poets Society

-1989

“I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve (or save) the world and a desire to enjoy (or savor) the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.”

— E.B. White

my heart lurches into my throat and lodges at the back like a jagged-edge stone. my lungs sprout wings and fly away.

the aching of their absence in my chest is heavy, despite my rib cage housing hollow. my skin jumps and begs to rip free.

i wake, and it is not a dream. my body is running from me, yet my mind will not free itself- it delights in it's cranial prison.

i wake, and your body is still rotting 6 feet under, your heart and lungs and skin and mind no more- but i cannot gift mine.

i don’t care if it’s cliché to love the dead poet’s society. it’s a brilliant story and if loving it is wrong, i’ll never be right.

my favourite sounds at 2am:

the soft buzz of the refrigerator downstairs

the steady hum of the a/c above my head

the faint rustle of the trees by my window*

*(my actual favourite sounds at 2am:

the softness off your exhale as you lay beside me

the rustling of my sheets as you turn toward me

the steady beating of your heart as you press your chest against mine.)