Deeply unsettled and desirous this afternoon.

Wanting and getting don't even exist in the same universe.

Photos are laughably poor substitutes for the feeling itself, but what else can I do?

Every shot is a slice to the self, opening a fresh little wound of light. Why is the drive always to rip ourselves apart?

It was never like that | it was always like that.


Summer thunder today from an unconvincingly blue sky.
I'm trying to keep my focus but it's damn hard.

Evergreen State College, 2016

There's a sticking point/uncomfortable plateau between the poles of optimistic motivation and complete desperation (the rare states that enable me to get something done) where I lag, convinced that if I think things through, if I can just figure this shit out, then I can move forward. Ironically, obsessive focus does nothing to help me with any relationship, career, or project. Never. The same things would get done with a tenth the thinking. Actually, I could do a lot more if I didn't waste so much time on thoughts.


Life is not a test.

Whether or not you're right about things has basically no meaning or value.

Frankfurt to Athens, 2016


I don't ever want to think I "know better."

Isn't that where innocence and optimism get lost?



Baseline state: heartbroken, hungry, bowled over by the beauty of life on earth.

Missing band camp.

(Because I'd rather be: naïve, winded, part of something bigger than myself.)


By taking pictures of what I like to see, do I end up romanticizing the past? My old rooms never come off in photos quite as blah as they were in reality—from some angles, at least.

Maybe it's the past-ness that makes me like the photos, though. Like pictures of yourself, the further back the less real, the more appealing. Time is a great filter.

I'm sure I'd remember it differently without the pictures. I may or may not be curating how my life appears to others, but I certainly have a finger on the scale of my own perception. Me in the present is asserting her viewpoint on me in the future. I'm positioning the window through which I'll be seeing the past. Once I can't remember what's outside the frame, the frame's all there is.

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