posting some of my old writing :))

these used to be and still are posted on my rentry diary page at /daisypusher. i ended up genuinely going through it on there though so im moving some of my better entries here

i havent been able to write like this for a while though...

--

02/08/25 [idk why this one is so long ;-;]

and so i begin. i learn to talk without my eyes, i learn to walk without my arms. i learn to sing without my mind. i hope am free, and i hope i am happy.

i begin to hope that the grass outside the station is home, until it is late and the sun is gone and all i have left are blinding lamps and a clattering phone call. i dont like to depart alone, it makes me feel cold. so i seek out more even after i leave, and then i forget how much is too much and the spark is gone and all i am left with is shadows and an empty message box.

i like to tell people to stop until i miss the act of their doing. i may never learn to love what i have. doctor, should i stay silent in my resentment?
i like to tell people everything until they tell me to stop. i may never learn what is too much. doctor, should i stay silent in my desires?
i like to consume until i have nothing left to give. why should i give it to you?

last week i bought a writing board. fresh and white from the store beneath the midtown centre down the stairs around the corner. i had friends then. although they were greater their own friends than mine. i wasnt planning on buying that writing board, i had other plans in mind. i already had one, clear and pink. but i got it anyway.

now it sits on my table, troubled by the scars left behind from when i dropped it the second i got home. my mother wasnt happy about me, and i suddenly wished i were my friends' friends and they were me so i could escape into the passive world

it doesnt matter anymore. i now have myself a writing board, fresh and white from the store beneath the midtown centre down the stairs and around the corner. i dont look at the broken one anymore. i wont fix it

and i havent been back since. i sometimes wonder how i accidentally let myself become like this. but i dont know what it is i am, yet i feel concern despite having done no wrong. perhaps to my mind, inferiority is a sin and i may have never been wrong, but there are merely others more right than me. it seems that may simply have to be the case.

and i have been beginning. learning to live without the ground, learning to be in my flesh and forgetting. i dont think i am free yet, but alas, i hope am happy.

--

22/05/25

i am only allowed to walk on the sun.

 walking faces berate their shadows without a moment of hesitation, while their neighbour stands enshrined in the gifted light of their own nature. but to the foreign eye we are all shadows, and i wish to bury myself in the dark

i have never been hurt yet i reach for pain. i have not felt cold but i cover myself in layers and layers upon layers of layers of nothing and everything all at once. i would rather be little pieces of powder on the street blown away by the slightest breeze. but i would rather lay my heart down beside his and remember what it is to be alive.
i would rather my eyes than my feet burn and the shadows they wield grasp my soul. i do not care if my suffering is inconspicuous. in the end i still have my head

but i am only allowed to walk on the sun

so i stare into the darkness, and one day it will take me whole

--

18/05/25

あぁ人生ご破算。 

it feels so good in the twisted city, masking abnormality. pure silver running through my veins and i breathe out blood. a rose-tinted mirage. i begin to feel my feet dip into the cold rain and suddenly i am not wearing legs
it feels so good to be in mutilated society. i cure my illness with my fingernails, they make me cry out of my ears. for once when i am deaf to the silence, i begin to laugh

my ornaments feel so light, i could fly beyond the sky. my limbs crumble like feathers, as if i were a bird, wrapped in my own misery. but my chest is filled with lead chips and i feel so incredibly alive 

it feels so good in the twisted city, to speak with my own teeth

--

28/04/25

where can i lay? i am held fervently down by his eyes of gold. it is with every part of my body that i reach for him as he stands in the tangled vines. i want to become one with him.
the monster sits on a perch with her legs crossed; she has cobblestone for eyes. she smiles at him. what haven't i done? he smiles back at her. am i not the right kind of perfect? i want to rip her throat out.

when he turns back his face is ash. he is not who he once was. his arms are now laced with thorns, where the vines only once pooled at his feet. i am still tied to his now hollow eyes - i have spent too long reaching. i am in love with the hope that he will return. I Am In Love With Someone Who Is Not There. i want to tear his throat out and crawl inside so that i can control him. i do not want to be a separate being. and where is the monster now?

the monster is a beacon of destruction. i want to rip her throat out.

i want to rip her throat out.

i want to rip her throat out.

--

27/04/25

11:11 am sunday april 27th.

he has left for the wasteland. we do not know if he will return, the wind is harsh in the city. the prospective of reunion is unlikely in a manner such that the perpetrator herself breathes out a sigh. there are no words to be shared between us, the consolation of fate is not new. it is possible to believe that the exterior life is better for such small instances, but despite the many farewells we have whispered to each other on his behalf, we do not know the result. we can only stand on the edge to call feebly and imagine in our dreams his feathered wings once again.

the interior is layered with the scales of man. even for us, it is all the same. it is hard to hope that it would be any different for something so small. there are traces of the body, a whisp in the air and below. i can still hear him calling. i know that it is him. i do not know where he is.