Catharsis; Parapraxis.

I often wonder whether these words are meant to be seen. Whether these feelings are insightful, dull, mundane, unique. I wonder if exhausting my knowledge of symbols will ever truly be purged and placed on paper. I often wonder if these words are so vague and flowery that I may not be able to reinvoke the powers I held within them. The moment these words are lost. The moment they will be lost may hold Catharsis or Parapraxis.

I cannot abandon these negativities when I think of you.

These words were meant for me.

God is a weapon.

These words won't matter until I'm dead.

The Beauty in Paranoia

A multi-conceptual thought, by Cecilia Lumley

Perhaps there is Beauty in Paranoia. One is always worried, shaken, to open the window in order to avoid the neighbour. To be constantly awakened to your senses. Your body floods with hopes of endorphins, when push comes to shove pick life, pick life. We find trivia in life's questions. Where is the hope of being anti-anthropocentric. In remaining spiritual, I hardly ever write pen on paper anymore, where I found the beauty of acute linguistics. To feel the remedies of surety and constancy. Speaking in motivational speeches is not always honest. There is something to the nature of paranoia. The sacading of the eyes that comes with paranoia allows more to be perceived and acknowledged; to witness many more visual stimuli. I'm sure I see more of this world than you do. Twitching and Fiddling, I'm sure I have more fine motor skills than you. I've been depressed and I've learned to fight it, I'm sure I'm stronger than you.

Be strong with me. Because there may be beauty in paranoia.

---But I doubt it.

I will write tonight.

The clouded mirror and the illusion of unmarked paths. The vague undertakings and shadowed ambition. Perhaps these pseudonyms take part in the one named I. Perhaps I am eager to speak your language, inflection and introspection . These mirages of my future inclinations are all encompassing and are eager to stear me in the wrong mortality. My soul seems to spread through these codes, these morse code actions upon my keys. Often I wish to have grown when you did, to write in the isolation of my room rather than the isolation of my mind. Without context the obsolete may remain at that, the biographers and stenographers over shadowed by the actors that were once cast in my lifes dialogue.

What is my purpose?

Ensler and Ghandi interpretation.

Being in front of the devestation of man, is merely the anecdote, we can be the change we want to see in the world, we are writing history, with a few revisions of course....

The Unbiased Identity of Self

Freedom
The need for conscientious choice
Sexual confidence
Connection to others
Pride
Egocentrism
Ethnocentrism
Prowess
Balance in rationalization
Recognition of self
Empathy
Osmosis of stories
Perseverance

Elixer and anecdotes.

‎"The finest steel has to go through the hottest fire." - John N. Mitchell

Let this fire, this angst burn around me. Hope is the solvent that will disentegrate the anger, frustration, refuge in agression. I will find the strength in steel, but no longer will denature the beauty in the sheen.

Perhaps the elixer, the anecdote, of the masses is merely the silence, the solvent, of anger, frustration, refuge in distasteful agression. It is hope that washes over us, that degrades any repulsion of empathy.

My words tangle, just like my understanding of who I am. Who I want to be. You'll never know who I really am, you'll never know the words that pour from this soul.

The potential is crippling.

And I....

I wish someone else wrote the scripts to our lives. I already know how my story ends. Perhaps the beauty of the twists and turns are inevitable during my daily improv called life. Lost and found in a single moment. I hate making you cry, it's always worse. We are the gate keepers and we only allow so many through the three layered reinforced walls around our hearts. Stop knocking, I've gone deaf.

The discontented Associate and The Illusion of Insanity

I want to write you a story, of the words that could pour like a fountain of unending constancy. The vague unraveling of sanity is the plague of society and is one of the only diseases that inevitably will find its end in communication. The depression of the mind, the slowing of the inner workings, the movement of electrical charge. The dull jump from one synapse to the next. The fallen and the wrath of the slumber in sadness. Can it be avoided, evaded or escaped? Can it be cured?

This is a story about a woman encapsulated.

She stands, her feet fixed to a lifted box. Unable to move. She's been placed on the pedestal by men and her creator. Her eyes directed towards the door constantly watching the spectators. She waits each day to see the growing crack between the doors as the light, the snow, the leaves, and the rain flutter in from the place she has heard the spectators call it, the outside. She lays monetary, unable to move, constantly thinking. As the spectators pace by, her mind paces. She wonders what they think of her architecture, her composition, the crooks made by her creator. She wonders what they experience outside of her home, outside of the walls, outside of the dusty rafters.

Every night the lights go out and her eyes scan the room, the paintings change the general composure of the room remains the same, she still stays planted.
She used to be jealous of those that were able to walk, to see the world from a spectrum of more than her simple peripheral shawl. But she got to a point were she began to see everything in monochromatics. Her eyes became expired to the beauty of the old, dark, semi-glossed and shoe scathed floor and the adjacent door outlined in sidelites composed of green glass recycled from old wine bottles

The internalized isolation that is beauty.

TO BE CONTINUED.

I miss you
I miss you before depression
I miss you before him
I miss you before them
I miss you before I could help
I miss you as much as I miss myself..
I love you
I love you before depression
I love you before him
I love you before them
I love you before I could help
I love you as much as I love myself..
I wish I could help
I wish I could help before the depression
I wish I could help before him
I wish I could help before them
I wish I could help
...
I FUCKIN WISH I COULD HELP

I was given the best older sister in the entire world, entire universe. I wish I could show her how beautiful, worthwhile and amazing she is...
But depression is a drug that encompasses many and takes few.
Please don't say goodbye I love you

Love always
Yer little brat
Cecilia

Lyrics

The words that revirbiate through me.

Those lyrics that remind me of the good times,

"Sugarrr"

The Lyrics that remind me of the bad times

"I can't take it any longer, thought that I was stronger"

The Lyrics that kept me strong

"These little black sandles are walking me away"

The Lyrics that forced me to lust

"I just need a little of your time"

The Lyrics that made me realise I was missing something

"It's not easy making a name for yourself, when do you draw the line, I never thought I'd be this far, Try not to miss me when I'm gone"

The lyrics that made me grow up

"I wanna live again, I want to start everything over again"

The Lyrics that made me fall for you

"Holding my breath walking alone with you, I get to hear your voice again, if this is a dream, will you stay with me? Please stay with me, Please stay with me"


The Lyrics that made me hate me

"There is a war inside of me... I feel like I wouldn't like me if I met me"

Lyrics that make me think

"Is every thing, a baited hook, are there locks on all doors, if you're looking for an open book I am yours."

Lyrics that make me Happy

"I want to start a revolution, a kind of personal solution, we all got our own pollution, its all about the execution.. don't it feel good don't it feel hot, feel the fire within, I wanna see you strut"

Lyrics that make me envision my future

"Love me, tender, love me sweet, never let me go. You have made my life complete and I love you so. Love me, tender, love me true, all my dreams fulfilled. For my darling I love you, and I always will."


Lyrics that make me feel badass

"So many dreams that I'm chasing, so many fuckers are hatin"

Lyrics that made me leave
"Just think about it, lately I've been skeptical silent when I used to speak, Distant from all that around me... I'd love to be the one to disappoint you when I don't fall down.... Your disposition I'll remember when I'm letting go, of you and me, we through, and REarranged. Think about it"

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Because there is beauty in the breakdown

Nothing is Impossible, it only spells "I'm Possible"

The night I lost a fight I wasn't willing to start. Goodbye <3

Inconsistently consistent

Teach me how to lie to myself so that I can be my own crutch. You are the perfect reverberance of the perfect man, but I'm inconsistently consistent. I'm sorry your princess wears a paper bag.

Time to change

Maybe it's time. I think it's time. Maybe it's time to change.

Time to let myself out of this shell and back to who I used to be before all the chaos. Before him, and him... Before that girl... Maybe it's time to change.

Maybe it's time. I think it's time. Maybe it's time to change.

Success doesn't have to be frightening if you're confident and open to change.

Maybe it's time. I think it's time. Maybe it's time to change.

For the better.

"we are so accustomed to disguising ourselves to others that we become disguised to ourselves"

Do not wear a mask if it leaves you uncomfortable and unsure of your true face.

Will the nightmare of you go away? I refuse to stay dormant and cry as I awake to a man that loves me more than you are capable of loving anyone or anything. Keep your demons away from me. I am free from you.

I am genuine. I am a facade.

Either that or the immanentity of a future more wise young woman in a shell that I cannot be contained within..

Nothing but a poets heart she once wrote. Nothing but a softly wilted peddle on the flower of life.

Maybe one day I'll allow myself to envelope the shine that falls upon my chest, the impotent soul that once reside there. I have placed my roots in soil that has once poisoned me, caused me to nearly die, I lay victim to bend and break with the stability it failed to provide.

I had begun to grow tired of his imperious demands, the redundant, callus bereavement.

Not once was I able to choose my direction of growth, nor the feild I was fertilized. In a sense I have grown in the direction that all beautiful flowers have been asked, towards the light. Towards the nurturing, warmth. The light that causes me to dehydrate, wilt and decay...

We will never run out of metaphors my gaudy peers.

But forget all that I have said, as to you, it is nothing but an idiom.

We are not given the time to let anyone in fully. I'd hate to say this.. but perhaps that is what makes life so beautiful. The mysterious feeling of projecting what others see. And knowing the difference. I am genuine. I am a facade. As are you.