San Bernardino, August 2014
Thursday, August 21st, 2014
An overdose of feeling is different than an overdose of cocaine, of heroin. It lasts longer, and it’s a bit more permanent. It’s scarier. Something real.
I’ve been changing a lot lately. For the better, hopefully. I am feeling with substance and without substances; a task and a skill I’ve never been too comfortable with.
I’ve been thriving on the strong spark of soft sobriety in the dark of a schoolnight. It’s so easy to get drunk, to get high. I want to feel emptiness without an easy escape and I want to feel happiness without heartless help. I want to feel everything in full.
I want numb to be done.
Baby steps. xx
I really enjoy reading your posts and seeing how you're changing. People may criticize your ever-changing lifestyle, but I think you're a hell of a writer, and you need all these experiences. I don't know whether or not these people that try to change your thought processes actually affect you, but I just want to tell you to not let them. You need to discover everything for yourself so you can write about it, and I can vicariously live through you when I read your stories. xo
This is so incredible. Thank you.
Take me to the ocean. I’ve been living on the western edge of a continent for the entirety of my stay on this planet and I’ve never seen the water like this. Never felt it like this.
I’ve been back to the coast five times since Sunday. I like it best at night. I like white mist in the dark and the feeling of the cold at my feet. I like the idea that by standing here, I am connected with everywhere. I am expansive and endless and I am full of possibility, a part of my brain I shut off years ago.
I think of it a lot like I think of hallucinogenics, those loopy, open drugs I’ve never done before. I never took them because I knew I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready, wasn’t happy.
The ocean is a lot like that. In your darkest, deepest, it is a terrifying thing. To feel so small and insignificant in the face of a force so completely undiscovered, a force you can’t completely wrap your head around.
In your lightest, truest, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. It is big, strong, and limitless. A lot like you.
And I didn’t realize how dark my darkness actually was until an enveloping light flickered in between every corner.
by Cheyne Thomas
RITUAL UNION //
Cc: @laurynholmquist @cameronleephan
Random access memories of cities and civilizations you have never been a part of. Places you have never visited. Your feel them in your bones, fervent and frequent.
Like your friend, the L.A. native with the dark hair and the black cats— She was a high priestess once, centuries ago in Egypt or some shit. A psychic from Arizona told her this over the phone, in the dark in Echo Park.
Arizona is a desert, a place you haven’t been since you were young and still developing memories of your father that didn’t involve crying. The Grand Canyon is embedded somewhere in your head, deep and far away. You get drunk sometimes and remember a heated swimming pool in Arizona in the winter time. You, your father, and the snow.
Like Déjà Vu. You remember with closed eyes and open ones too. You remember past and present and you swear sometimes that you can remember the future. You say that you think it’s a lot like hope.
You remember the Indian Ocean, but not the first time you visited it. You are 21 and you remember being 27, floating in the salt and soft waves. You remember feeling like the ocean connected you to the rest of the world.
You remember red-eye flights you’ll take over the next decade to places you have only dreamed of up until that point. You remember peaks and valleys and rivers and mountains. You remember hotels, motels, hostels and backseat naps. You remember soft light in the hours between midnight and sunrise and you remember Texas.
At 21, you’ve never been, but you can feel it in a daze, out of focus in the distance. You can hear the hot wind of summer pass you in west Texas and you can feel the first snowflakes of a Texan winter landing softly on your face.
You were on the west coast when you decided that you wanted to go to Texas. You were kneeling in cold water with the boy from Dallas with the strong jaw and the soft voice. You were smiling– I mean, like, really smiling– for the first time in years. Miles out from the coast, out past smiling faces and breaking waves, somewhere quiet in the ocean, a storm was brewing.
Like Déjà Vu. You remember with closed eyes and open ones too. Ancient and soon-to-be-ancient civilizations were and are crumbling and rebuilding all around you all of the time. Life is moving forward with reckless abandon. It is a runaway train, and for the last 21 years, you have been waiting for your stop.
You remember happiness and sadness and everything in between. You remember heartbreak and youthquakes and the soft onset of big mistakes. You remember a bag you packed on the last day of a particularly transformative summer in your early twenties. You left it by your bedroom door as a constant reminder. A decision to leave whenever given the opportunity.
Lauren and Lauryn, August 2014
Lauryn, August 2014
PARTS OF YOUR LIFE WILL FALL APART AROUND YOU LIKE HARD MIST FROM THE OCEAN FALLS AROUND YOUR HEAD AT 1AM IN THE DARK ON A BEACH YOU USED TO VISIT AS A CHILD, AND STUFF.
WHITE FLECKS OF FOAM IN YOUR HAIR AND THE UNDENIABLY TENSE FEELING OF DREAD AND JOY IN YOUR BONES LIKE YOU USED TO FEEL WHEN TRYING TO FALL ASLEEP THE NIGHT BEFORE YOUR BIRTHDAY, OR CHRISTMAS, OR WHATEVER.
WHITE NEON SCREEN ON THE BEACH AND A TEXT MESSAGE FROM A CLOSE FRIEND THAT TELLS YOU TO BE EXCITED YOU CAN FEEL AT ALL, YOU KNOW?
WHITE MIST AND WHITE IPHONES AND YOUR WHITE TEETH IN THE DARK / SMILING LIKE YOU NEVER HAVE BEFORE BECAUSE FOR THE FIRST TIME IN YOUR LIFE YOU CAN ACTUALLY FEEL WITH SUBSTANCE / WITHOUT SUBSTANCES.
#HYBRID // kidd/cummings/cope
Cc: @ben_cope @saracummings