It would soon start to rain, as it does in the rainy season. The sky was grey with light and the clouds formed into a fluffy blanket for the sun. A cool breeze moved swiftly past the army of houses, the roofs a familiar dull brown and structures a blue grey, different from the sky’s shining grey, for it did not bring nearly as much joy.

The cold was insistent, hanging in every crevices the outdoors gave it. No willing soul was outside, and therefore no yearning one either. The neighborhood was old in construction and young in presence. The cement had cracked from little feet pounding away its former glory, the roads worn grey from the drives to school then sport then home again. Neighborhood was filled with quick children, children who’s youth would pass by them with ease leaving only a simple kiss.

Complacency sat on the cracked sidewalk quietly. Complacency did not move from his bike. The bike was baby blue, the kind only really suited for a child. He was small for is age, for you could see it in the scrunchiness of his face. His hair had grown long and curly, a look not meant for boys with dark hair and he knew it. He was a child escaped from the sun, scrawny legs exposed by cheap overalls and a sweater. He had dressed himself today, finally, and while his mother had still cried out when he left, he couldn’t help the small bubble of pleasantry that had filled him.

But for now he was nothing more than complacent and it was ugly on him. Yet he wore it with purpose as he scrunched his face indignantly and curiously ahead of him and over the road to one uniform house. It was plain and ordinary, its only distinction being the lilies by the door.


in the beginning, there was no god.

in the soundless chambers of time and space

it was born.

small and insignificant;

its face blotchy and fat with flesh—

a sputtering mess  on its own—

eyes glowing bright,

the stars illuminated in response to it,

their dust reflective and vain compared to its eyes.


Their tongue was made of moonshine

and dry with stardust.

They were in but the child of

oblivion, unknown and renowned,



it babbles softly in the fibers of space and time,

the universe crying mercilessly for answer.

Yet the child will only coo,

its heavenly body occupied with more timely affairs.

Self Maintenance

As you may have noticed, I haven’t posted for the past two days like I had intended to. Half because I’ve been hella occupied, and half because of my current crisis: not taking care of myself.

If you have internet connection, you’ve probably heard the term self care at some point, which while it sounds pleasant in theory, it’s kind of time consuming, costly, and romanticized. Self care every now and again is important, but there’s something inherently selfish about having a routine dedicated to pampering.

So, I coin the term “self maintenance,” defined as meeting the basic needs, like eating, and sleeping, and hygiene, and not overworking to the point of losing your sense of self. I feel like self maintenance compared to self care is very health related. It has to do with maximizing wellbeing on the individual level, building yourself up versus treating yourself like royalty.

Because, in case you somehow forgot, French nobles were very into self care, and then they died because everyone hated them.

I’m not saying that you shouldn’t ever indulge in self care. Self care is best used after strenuous work, like executing a big event, completing a project, or caring for someone else for a long time. I think self care is closely linked to self actualization (self realization, self discovery, etc.). It helps you focus back in on your own individual experience, to recharge in a sense, to sort yourself out. I think a big misconception is it having to be beauty related. For some people it’s zoning out and playing music, or game of basketball, or freeform art. It doesn’t have to be extravagant, but it’s kind of useless when done in the mess of things. You can’t multitask and it can’t be a marked activity. That’s when it’s no longer fun.

But it’s never a priority. I’m glad I’ve come to that conclusion.

So now that I’ve recognized that I have a problem, I want to help some of you! Yes me, the most qualified of the qualified. Please note that I’m actually twelve and therefore can’t be scholarly as far as medical necessity goes. Anyhow:

Do you sleep consistently each night? (at the same time, in the same place, undisturbed)

Do you get at least 6-7 hours consistently? (refer to top bracket)

Do you eat at least twice a day, throughout the day?

Do you eat a variety, and don’t cop out habitually to eat fatty foods?

Do you stay hydrated throughout the day?

Do you eat breakfast everyday?

Do you ever neglect any basic needs?

Do you maintain proper hygiene consistently?

Have you developed proper skills to combat stress?

I think you and I both know what the proper answers to those questions should be. It’s not shameful to be bad at taking care of yourself. However it’s important to evaluate and improve. You gotta keep growing.

I hope my struggle helps you through yours. And in the case that anyone who knows me personally reads this, I’m okay and working on it.

have a good day lovelies,



[according to WordPress it is Thursday the 23rd. according to me and the kansan clocks it is not that. so I’m perfectly on schedule.]

When I committed to doing a total of four blog style posts to end the month, I couldn’t think of what to talk about in such a short increment of time. There’s tons of things I could write my opinion over, like movies, books, and music. I could write about my life and the things that occur as such.

Or I could write about how I don’t know what to write because sometimes I feel helplessly thoughtless. It happens to the best of us and the worst of us. Intellectual originality is hard, and most likely impossible, considering within the thousands of years in human existence and the billions of people who have passed through this planet, there’s no way in hell anything I say think or make can be entirely original.

However it can be a plethora of things synthesized into one entity and it comforts me knowing that I’m not racing anyone for the next big idea. The idea is there, resting in my palms waiting patiently for me to mash it between my fingers until it is unrecognizable and bizarre.

I love thinking of concepts and ideas in my head, also known as daydreaming¹, to test out these concepts, usually rooted in either humor or intense drama. I enjoy it best when it reaches the point of hysteria, leaving me giggling for supposedly no reason at all, to being in a prolonged state of sober silence from challenging the likelihood of true humanity.

I guess that is what most would constitute as a very active imagination.

I enjoy resting in other people’s daydream’s too. I find the type of narrative I want to hear at the time tends to be highly reflective of my mood and energy. Usually I want to l laugh or feel inspired, but sometimes it tips to one side more than the other and in various degrees. Humor could be crack humor or dark, well constructed comedy. Inspiration could mean beautifully scenic skies or a story about cult activity. I just love hearing strange, or well presented ideas.

I’m great at coming up with ideas. I’m terrible at execution, which on surface level sounds relatable, but there’s a difference between laziness and lack of confidence compared to generalized exhaustion and inability to get yourself together. Hence, still very relatable.

My biggest issues when it comes to creating is having some sort of relevancy. I have a very hard time forcing myself to be likable. I personally see it as a waste of energy and time, which is explained by my social inadequacy². I’ve contemplated how I can make what I do more accessible to people but if I’m being honest I don’t have the time. I don’t have the time to reach for people who aren’t reaching back.

I just really love doing what I do a lot, relevant or not.

¹meaning intensive alternate reality construction that I’ve spent years of my existence perfecting

²this being the cause of years of socialization gone wrong along with typical teenage insecurity mixed with a sense superiority.

time will leave me.

Time is running.

I wonder if she ever grows tired

of her feet constantly ticking against the track,

her hair slapping her back like a pendulum:

long. dull. ever-flowing in the endless winds that guide her.


Time never leaves me.

She is a faithful companion:

doting and kind and loyal.

Still she is flawed

for she whispers blasphemies in my ear,

reminding me as I forget.


Time is so easily forgotten,

for if she’d only slow down

maybe then we would never have to leave each other.

Today is January 20th, 2017

Today hurt me. Not the main event, with the state of DC at the moment but the small things. The way sleep seemed to pin me down by the neck when I woke up this morning. How there was no gum in my bag to satisfy my addictive tendencies. An ache made home in my head no matter how much water I drank. Most importantly, I couldn’t speak today.

I could feel eyes on me as I walked, my strides long and manly as my dad likes to comment on. I’ve never understood fully what it meant to be confident. Anxiety has settled deeper I my bones by the day and I wondered all day why I couldn’t find it in myself to care today. I was so tired and sometimes when you’re tired you don’t feel like doing anything.

So the day ends, a long but pleasant day all the same. I am tired, too tired to bid a kind word so I sit. I sit on a chair for twenty minutes, my mind slowly exploding. I don’t like staying too long in one part of the school because I do not feel safe in myself. There’s a strange, isolated sense of otherness there and it reminds me of why I feel lonely.

But time passes. Thank god.

I go home with my headache, caring carefully in my skull, letting it run itself through my veins making me dizzy. I rested for an hour, staring into the abyss and feeling my heartbeat, its violent thump striking random beats in my chest. I ate some chocolate to aid my melodrama as the TV came on before deciding to be useful and wash the dishes for half an hour. Of course this wasn’t necessary, since they could’ve been done the night before, but no one here thinks to do that when they’re not busy.

As the minutes move, a feel my beat soften as my heart feels heavier. I am tired again but carry on with the little story I always have in my head. I go to my room and try to work. Nothing. Hence, I draw, a carnation first, then the start of a profile and finally hair before fear strikes my bones again.

Suddenly I’m cleaning, my shoes being thrown in the closet while my other hand searches frantically for hangers, papers thrown in the trash. That shouldn’t be there, I don’t know what this is, and I’m crying now.

I cry because I’m tired. I’m tired and scared and stressed and it’s only been…a week. Two weeks actually, but I could never give myself that much credit. Now I wonder how this happened, how this all changed from the year before, when I had much worse. I wonder why I’m so scared all of a sudden. What am I scared of?

I did the work (and ate some food, but only a little). In fact, it was just done, the only thing accomplished besides this. Yet I’m still so angry, so what was the point?

[this is a narrative autobiography style of writing]