Hypervigilantestablishasensitivementarianism
It's a word created for when you are a sensitive soul, hypervigilant to your surroundings and people, leaving an imprint and impacting your life most infavourably.
It's a word for when you long to take control of the little nagging voice in your head, but near impossible when you just heard the loud angry clang of water surging through pipes in the house.
Uh oh. Even the water system has it in for you these days.
It's a word for when you tiptoe on the edge of paranoia.
It's a word that has nothing to do with antidisestablishmentarianism, so basically it's a load of codswallop.
You try to distract yourself from the voice, so you hunt. You're on the prowl for any form of distraction. You come across an old treasure trove and open it. Nostalgia washes over you and you pick up these trinkets from the ghosts of Christmas past.
Knitting needles tangled with green wool connect the dots and entwine documents and notebooks binding them as one. You hoard these items, unable to ever throw them out.
I just found a lamp and a note.
From a girl with her tits done.
A plain A4 book sits alone at the very bottom of this chaotic pile. To the untrained eye it looks like a dull ordinary black binded book, to the trained not so. You instantly recognise it's significance. In tiny lettering on the front it reads "visual diary".
You were the owner of countless of such diaries from the age of ten, as it was on that birthday, the day you turned double digits you received three. An A3, 4 and 5. The Baby bear, Mama Bear and Papa Bear of drawing books. You were completely stumped as what to do at first. Then one day sitting in the lounge room next to your youngest sister you whipped out Papa Bear and attempted a sistery portrait. Before you knew it over the years there was drawings, scribbles, patterns, stories, lyrics, codes, poems, naked women, to do lists and feelings. This one from your later teenage years you held in your hands contained it all: elation, frustration, confusion delusion, right down to the mundane "John Citizen- 0466 611 666".
Then a horrible occurrence occurred. This distraction was suppose to make you feel better. The horrible occurrence that occurred was the dreaded realisation that last year's diary aka "The Green Book" was nowhere to be seen. You left that diary at your old house.
Shit.
It's a word created for when you are a sensitive soul, hypervigilant to your surroundings and people, leaving an imprint and impacting your life most infavourably.
It's a word for when you long to take control of the little nagging voice in your head, but near impossible when you just heard the loud angry clang of water surging through pipes in the house.
Uh oh. Even the water system has it in for you these days.
It's a word for when you tiptoe on the edge of paranoia.
It's a word that has nothing to do with antidisestablishmentarianism, so basically it's a load of codswallop.
You try to distract yourself from the voice, so you hunt. You're on the prowl for any form of distraction. You come across an old treasure trove and open it. Nostalgia washes over you and you pick up these trinkets from the ghosts of Christmas past.
Knitting needles tangled with green wool connect the dots and entwine documents and notebooks binding them as one. You hoard these items, unable to ever throw them out.
I just found a lamp and a note.
From a girl with her tits done.
A plain A4 book sits alone at the very bottom of this chaotic pile. To the untrained eye it looks like a dull ordinary black binded book, to the trained not so. You instantly recognise it's significance. In tiny lettering on the front it reads "visual diary".
You were the owner of countless of such diaries from the age of ten, as it was on that birthday, the day you turned double digits you received three. An A3, 4 and 5. The Baby bear, Mama Bear and Papa Bear of drawing books. You were completely stumped as what to do at first. Then one day sitting in the lounge room next to your youngest sister you whipped out Papa Bear and attempted a sistery portrait. Before you knew it over the years there was drawings, scribbles, patterns, stories, lyrics, codes, poems, naked women, to do lists and feelings. This one from your later teenage years you held in your hands contained it all: elation, frustration, confusion delusion, right down to the mundane "John Citizen- 0466 611 666".
Then a horrible occurrence occurred. This distraction was suppose to make you feel better. The horrible occurrence that occurred was the dreaded realisation that last year's diary aka "The Green Book" was nowhere to be seen. You left that diary at your old house.
Shit.
VIEW 12 of 12 COMMENTS
throughnthrough:
your writing is beautiful! i wish i had seen this blog earlier! 
Female writers are oh-so sexy 
how have you been, pretty lady?
Female writers are oh-so sexy how have you been, pretty lady?
rivera:
ZIPPITY BOOM BOOM ZAP PEW BOOM GIGGITY 