I'm just gagging on all the alright.
- rebeccahunter@hotmail.co.nz -

Remember when new, exciting people were dime a dozen and the city didn’t box you in with it’s infinite walls. Remember the house parties when you knew noone. Remember when you knew nothing at all but exactly what you wanted. Remember having a clue. Remember getting angry about being sad not the other way around. Remember BEST FRIENDS MEANS FRIENDS FOREVER and how you don’t know anything or anybody you used to know anymore. Remember hanging on to a feeling your brain couldn’t make by itself anymore by pushing your body to the limit more often than it oughtta be pushed. Remember how it feels to die and live through it. There’s worse things than making it through the hardest times of your life. There’s the expansive nothing that reaches out in all directions for all time and space; possibility. Possibility and what you haven’t achieved. Possibility and all the potential you never lived up to. Nothing feels good anymore.




(Source: grrrlinthebox, via theolmec)

And Dissolution, Too.


I have to assume that not everyone is unsatisfied. I can sit quite safely on that statement. It’s comfy. 
But I spend a lot of time alone which lends to thoughts which inevitably make me feel worse and doomed. Doomed to be at the top of the world with a joke-gun instead of a real one, when I go to pull the trigger and a flag comes out and it says BANG and the lights go down.
So there are people that are satisfied, but in bed at night I think they must be unintelligent. And on the bus I think they must have had children too early. Biting my nails till they swell and bleed and all that’s underneath pours out, in my dreams I’m drowning in all my unfulfilled wants.

23 is a trip.

I’m in the inbetween. I no longer want to fill other people’s minds with metaphors for depression or make you feel dwarfed by how much sex I’ve had. A dirty youth is durable, I’ll give you that, I could write screeds of parties, drugs, late-night-early-morning-walk-homes and there would always be people wanting to read it. My intelligence is earnest, it sits on my shoulders and rolls its eyes when I am self-destructive for the sake of being self-destructive. Where to from here, then? It can’t answer me that, but it’s telling me what notto do, as if that’s enough.

It isn’t.
You are a poor parent but the kind of parent I wish I’d had.

Wellington City is killing me. So precious are the shoes that strike the streets, the feet inside of them. I am dehydrated almost always even though it rains and rains and rains.
I have been besotted but the honeymoon period is over and the kids have ruined the welcome-home.
I fucking hate Cuba Street. I hate that goddamn bucket fountain and I hate everyone that takes photographs of it. I feel like a bitter hag in the face of every fresh new city-foreigner.
But what if there is no more magic anywhere?

I live in fear of nothing ever being as good as the days when I was not afflicted by depression. Sporadic, but in comparison to the underwater weeks, they were a heaven I feel for the charms of every single time.

Best friend articulating my thoughts as of late. I’m too exhausted so it’s wonderful to have someone around that Gets It. x

(Source: ladycrappo, via queencreosote)


I am so fucking sad and exhausted by this world let me sleep forever